November 3rd - 2026 California lets Represent!!
#Vote #TrunpMUSTbeSTOPPED #standunited
Tuesday, October 6, 2026
Rest In Peace Freddie Jackson
Rest in Peace - Freddie Jackson, a TRUE R&B crooner with many, many hits including my Mother’s favorite ‘You Are My Lady’. Maybe now she will get to hear it again LIVE! #FreddieJackson
This one has me Gutted ….
Sadly TRUTH isn’t always true for everyone. I Love You
They say a fool will lose tomorrow, reaching backward for yesterday. Perhaps there is truth in that, but I refuse to turn toward sorrow, yet I’m Incredibly devastated, that you’ve gone away.. There are departures that alter the architecture of a life, leaving behind rooms filled with echoes, unanswered questions, and the unbearable silence of things that were never given the dignity of resolution.
Reality is often altered to mirror whatever story best serves the narrative, whatever version allows the conscience to remain undisturbed. We become philosophers of our own absolution, constructing elaborate paradigms in which accountability is diluted and culpability becomes someone else’s burden. Mistakes and regret can stifle growth when uncertainty is mistaken for patience and avoidance is disguised as wisdom. Yet time does not erase consequences. It merely teaches us how to carry them.
Words can cut deeper than intention ever anticipates. A wound does not become less consequential simply because the blade was wielded without malice. Intent may explain an action, but it does not invalidate its consequences. The human spirit is often paralyzed not by what was meant, but by what was felt. In that space between intention and impact, entire relationships can become casualties. Validity, perception, memory, and experience converge to sculpt a paradigm from which there is no effortless escape.
In death, I was gutted by stories that ended prematurely—narratives abandoned without resolve, interrupted before their final sentence, incomplete chapters condemned to exist forever without conclusion. There are forms of death that require no grave. Sometimes a person dies within the mythology of another person’s life, erased from the narrative as though their existence were merely an inconvenient footnote.
The past is not nearly as forgiving as we would like it to be.
Wrong turns linger. Procrastination becomes its own form of mourning. The things we postpone, the conversations we avoid, the apologies we never offer, and the truths we refuse to confront can eventually become an existential debt. And there comes a moment when you realize the burning hole in your core is not merely grief for what was lost—it is grief for the person you once believed you were becoming.
Raw wounds eventually form scabs, but healing is not synonymous with forgetting. Sometimes a scar is simply evidence that the body and soul survived an assault they were never prepared to endure. The pain is ravaging. It rearranges the interior landscape. It dismantles assumptions, interrogates faith, and forces you to reconsider the fundamental propositions upon which you constructed your understanding of love, loyalty, forgiveness, and belonging.
I doubt I will ever be the same.
Perhaps that is the most honest consequence of being wounded: not that you become stronger, but that you become different. The innocence that once allowed you to trust without calculation cannot always be resurrected. Something primordial changes when you are discarded by someone who once convinced you that your presence mattered.
Being cut out—as if you never mattered, as if you never existed, as if your memories could simply be excised from the historical record—is a haunting and unwarranted kind of confessional. It demands that the person who remains carry the burden of proving that the relationship was real.
But I remember.
I remember the moments that cannot be retroactively falsified simply because they have become inconvenient. I remember the laughter, the silence, the promises, the disappointments, the tenderness, the fractures, and the moments when everything seemed irrevocably significant. Memory is not always kind, but neither is it inherently fraudulent.
Delivering intentional pain is not a rightful gain for anyone. There is no moral victory in leaving another human being psychologically dismantled and then calling the destruction necessary. There is no nobility in rewriting history simply because the truth has become uncomfortable. And there is no absolution in convincing yourself that another person’s suffering was merely the inevitable consequence of your own choices.
Count your memories.
One by one.
Do not surrender them to revisionism merely because someone else has developed a more convenient version of the past. Continue to speak TRUTH—not as vengeance, not as retaliation, but as an act of existential preservation.
Because some will attempt to rewrite the story.
Some will rearrange the chronology, redefine the meaning, reinterpret the motives, and canonize themselves as innocent within a history they helped create. They will turn contradictions into explanations and explanations into absolution.
Let them.
Truth does not require unanimous consent.
You do not need permission for your pain to have been real. You do not need another person’s acknowledgment to validate what you endured. And you do not need the person who wounded you to become the narrator of your own existence.
There are stories that end without closure.
There are relationships that terminate without justice.
There are questions that will remain unanswered long after the people who created them have moved on.
And there are wounds that become permanent monuments to what we were willing to believe, what we were willing to forgive, and what we should never have been asked to endure.
Still, I will remember.
I will remember not because I am incapable of letting go, but because forgetting is not a prerequisite for healing.
I can release the person without surrendering the truth.
I can mourn what died without pretending it never lived.
And perhaps that is the final paradox of grief: sometimes the only way to reclaim yourself from a story that tried to erase you is to become the keeper of your own memory.
Not the victim.
Not the villain.
Not the revisionist.
The witness.
And I was there.
Rest In Peace Little Brother #SenecaJohnBohanan My biggest regret, we never got to fully circle back.
Sunday, October 4, 2026
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)