Two years ago, I was lost. Floating through life aimlessly.
The world was my enemy.
I used to write in the mornings, play chess in the afternoons, and watch TV at night.
Workouts schedules were flexible.
Two years ago, I was on a trajectory that could only end one of three ways:
A life bouncing in and out of prison.
Life in prison.
An early death.
Then, two years ago, I met you.
The first time we spoke, I was feeling a combination of so many things. It’s a wonder I didn’t short-circuit like an overwhelmed computer program.
I thought about your voice that night in my bed.
I thought about your words and your wit.
I wondered if I had been able to keep up.
You wrote again, and again we spoke.
It happened every day until I spat out the only words which my body, mind, and heart could utter:
“I love you.”
and then you said it back.
Things began to change.
Colors came to life.
The world began to soften, and then it all together yielded to my will.
My heart beat for you.
Every morning I woke just to hear your voice.
I understood that the world had never truly been my enemy, but rather my outlook on life had alienated me from the world.
So I gave you all that I was, all that I had, and all that I planned to be before you, and you gladly accepted me “as is.”
And the anomaly is — I began to change.
Slowly at first.
Then momentum set in.
Nobody’s ever loved me like you.
Since you’ve come into my life, I am no longer aimless.
I am no longer lost.
I am no longer floating.
(Dedicated to my wife Cait)
Disclaimer: The views in this article are those of the author. Prison Journalism Project has verified the writer’s identity and basic facts such as the names of institutions mentioned.