Friday, July 20, 2007

Post Traumatic Stress

Not to long agoI had a heated debate over the draft
and how it would not benefit people that are Black.
Especially those that are from the rural or inner
city. I look at it from the stand point from my
observation of the Filipinos in that they use uncle
sam for everything he got in order to bring
their folks over and create generations to come non
dependent on the military.
What set me off is that this only
experience with poverty is dealing with folks in a
correctional setting and yeah this person getting
their PhD in the psyche field but that means jack. The
problem I have is that people that never had to
struggle can never relate to poverty or struggle
they may have an idea but
they will never know. Post Traumatic Stress is the
closest I can relate because poverty is a war zone and
the victims it creates are angry and hungry for
vengeance in any fashion. When going to the store
involves the possibility of not coming home or being
violated plays on your mind -- thats poverty. Watching
your mom or whoever is taking care of you slave for
nothing - that's poverty. When the rich get this
bubbling sensation in their stomachs to help the
natives they need to realize that poverty is a war zone.
It does not have to be a war of
guns cause poverty inflicts an internal war of
helplessness which feeds the fire of anger. I hear
folks talk about these kids in battle zones and that
is causing the problem. It does happen but it is only
a snap shot of the broader picture.
I get tired of bougie mother fuckers trying to tell me
about my life. I appreciate those with cash
that want to come and play in the mud but you they
have no true understanding. You cannot feel the pain
if you never experience it. Help if you want but shut
the fuck up when trying to tell me about my life...

I ran across this and it just spoke to me...

How I Became a Madman

You ask me how I became a madman. It happened thus: One day, long before many gods were born, I woke from a deep sleep and found all my masks were stolen -- the seven masks I have fashioned and worn in seven lives -- I ran maskless through the crowded streets shouting, "Thieves, thieves, the cursed thieves."
Men and women laughed at me and some ran to their houses in fear of me.
And when I reached the market place, a youth standing on a house-top cried, "He is a madman." I looked up to behold him; the sun kissed my own naked face for the first time. For the first time the sun kissed my own naked face and my soul was inflamed with love for the sun, and I wanted my masks no more. And as if in a trance I cried, "Blessed, blessed are the thieves who stole my masks."
Thus I became a madman.
And I have found both freedom and safety in my madness; the freedom of loneliness and the safety from being understood, for those who understand us enslave something in us.
But let me not be too proud of my safety. Even a Thief in a jail is safe from another thief.

Kahlil Gibran

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