What book could you read over and over again?
Some pages missing
Thought I was him once.
Randle P. McMurphy
laughing too loud
pushing too hard
mistaking noise for control.
—
Turns out—
you can rattle a cage so long
you forget
you’re still inside it.
—
Did my time near the edge.
Not a metaphor.
Real enough
that I still catch myself scanning rooms
for exits
I don’t need anymore.
—
There’s a taste to it.
Not freedom.
Not power.
Something… cheaper.
Easy to confuse the two
when you’re young
or angry
or both.
—
Watched a few go over.
Didn’t come back.
Still walking.
Still talking.
Nothing behind the eyes
but compliance dressed up as calm.
—
One of them smiled at me once—
like he recognized something.
I still don’t know
which side of the glass he thought I was on.
—
I came back.
Not proud of it.
Not ashamed either.
Just… done.
—
People call it discipline.
Feels more like
recognition.
You see the line once
you don’t need to test it every day.
—
I can still go there.
That’s not gone.
Just… unnecessary.
—
There’s a version of me
that solves problems fast.
Doesn’t ask.
Doesn’t wait.
Useful in the wrong world.
Dangerous in the right one.
—
So I keep him close.
Not buried.
Not unleashed.
On a leash
I hold.
Most days.
—
Walk among the civil now.
Nod.
Build.
Keep things moving.
They think it’s reform.
It’s not.
It’s selection.
—
Sometimes I miss it—
not the damage,
just the clarity.
—
Some people never leave the path.
Some never see it.
Some of us—
stepped off
went too far
came back
different.
—
You don’t preach after that.
You don’t wake people up.
You just…
stop sleeping.
—
One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest got one thing right—
the loud ones don’t always win.
Sometimes they just
fade out slower.
—
I learned where that road ends.
Didn’t like the ending.
Left early.
Or maybe I was let out.
—
If it all tilts—
if the structure forgets what it’s holding—
I won’t freeze.
I won’t ask.
I won’t wonder.
—
Not because I’m reckless.
Because I remember
how quiet it gets
right before something breaks.
—
Most days—
quiet.
Measured.
Forgettable, even.
—
That’s fine.
—
But not harmless.
Never that.
—
(last line scratched out, still legible)
I could still enjoy it, if I let myself.