40 oz of Freedom
I truly have no answers, if any, about life in this world. I don’t claim to understand the underlying values of this system. But I also don’t choose to. Because I don’t believe in it. I don’t believe in a world which spells a finish-line with letters pronounced ‘death’. I don’t believe in a world where loss is as natural as life. I don’t believe man will ever have the true capability beyond words to lay peace and justice as neatly as an iron-pressed shirt on Sunday mornings I adorn my faith in religiously. Simply put, I don’t believe in man. Maybe I’m completely wrong. Maybe this road I walk toward is as narrow as they say my mind is. Maybe. But maybe dying for a belief of something more. Or something better. Maybe believing that my great grandpa is sitting somewhere on the other side of paradise waiting for me means more to me than to ever believe that this world is worth dying for. That injustice. And hatred. And finding escape through forty-ounces of freedoms and hangovers is a
