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Calm Carl


Would You Refuse An Angel?

Would you be stuck in your variety of beliefs and on your agnostic fence that you’d be blind to the vision?

I did.

At my lowest ebb, down on my luck, lacking friends, family and love. Completely out of my senses on drugs and drink, I was stunned by a hallucination of such beauty that when I remember now that it was real flesh and blood I wish I had been hallucinating.

I had a saviour, an angel of mercy, an offer of unconditional love if I allowed my soul to live with love.

I had dreamed of that feeling, begged for it for most of my life. It was probably the first emotion other than pain, desire for food, the need to be comfortable or the joy of being warm and happy.

All I had to do was follow my heart, believe in love, walk on the right side of the street, be the best I could be, stop destroying myself with sell pity, hedonism and stupidity. All I had to do was conquer addiction: but my addiction was love; love me I’m drunk, I’m silly, stoned, romantic, confident, and on and on.

The angel loved me when I was any of the above, loved me in the morning, noon and night, awake, asleep, a fucking angel loved me. Do you understand what that means? For me it meant that I could be forgiven for not believing in love.

You may never have been cold hearted, but you’ve probably refused to use love as an excuse to do the right thing

Selfish, shameful, sometimes just plain lazy, not stopping to help.

Not so long ago it was believed, by intelligent men that women were incomplete, lacking something and the answer to their problem was between men’s legs; have a child and you’ll stop being inferior. While men were off making war and obtaining the spoils of killing women were expected to look after men’s creation of life.

Now things are changed, but the answer to the problem has remained the same, but the problem, for me was the answer to my problem was between women’s legs.

All of my faults needed love and sex was love, intimacy just sharing anything was love.

I have no memories of success, no joy in myself. I don’t know whether or not a lot of people share that, but I have just done things (good sometimes) yet they hold no special memory. I wrote, acted, I’m good with children, I’ve been known to make people laugh but nothing that I start is ever completed. It just ends and then it’s another ‘thing’ I’ve done.

But this isn’t real, this angel touching my heart opening the door to Heaven, Nirvana, wherever your dreamland is, see it now.

Now close the door.

Now what? Cry. Kill yourself. Tell yourself it didn’t happen, that you dreamed it.

I was touched by silk cocaine, kissed by a summer breeze, my heart was filled with joy and my eyes were opened to the beauty of life and I fucked it.

This is the day of my meeting.

On the first day there was light; VIVIDBRIGHTSUDDEN MAKEMEBLINK LIGHTS, then BLACKNOTHINGNESS THAT WASN‘T THERE BECAUSE THEN THERE WERE LIGHTS, completely absorbing colours that made me blind to any other colour but the one I could see. I was nowhere, then somewhere else. I seemed to be a sound chameleon, who changed with the lights, because I only existed where there was music and I didn’t care where I was. Here, then there, no in between, didn’t walk, didn’t get a cab or a bus or tube, and didn’t care.

Then there was a brighter light, an angel floating in front of me, smiling at me, in me, surrounding me with an overwhelming sense that I was safer than I’d ever been. The music didn’t exist; the only light came from the angel, my angel.

I walked away from the light of compassion and love.