I still bear the scars of my past. Perhaps you might not even think of it as such: my heart still jumps when I see a police car. This is from having once been a small time drug dealer back in college, when the paranoia was at a high. I still watch them carefully, out of the corner of my eye, until they pass. There is no reason for them to bother me any more. And from the madness, whenever there is some surprising noise at the periphery of my senses, the psychotic switch as if triggered so easily begins to poison my thinking: of strange things that the noise might portend, to my immortal soul, to what my being must be, to what the future must hold, to what the past must translate to. And though it’s better than it was in the past, little things don’t go away. I will be forever twisted, if slightly.
