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Chapter 23: ALICIA CHAY

They say life long memories——and the images trapped within dismal mortal photo albums on glossy paper of all kinds, and of all sizes, and all the good times ye have been blessed by God to experience (if ye believed in Him, hath nothing to do with me, figuratively speaking of course), and all the hardships ye have endured, and unwarranted (and warranted) onslaughts thy thoughts brought to reality——lost its meaning when you’re struck with Alzheimer’s disease, or any disease that alters the mind.

After all…who wanted to be a vegetable when you’d rather have the full course meal?

Imagine going through thy whole life spending thy every waking moment pleasing others, and doing unto others as ye would have them do unto ye, and they abandon ye when ye needeth them the most, giving a home and refuge to parrots, cats, dogs and animals, yet walk over the bums on the street and won’t offereth a kind word or a quarter if they could spare it.

Or offereth a hot meal if they can afford it.

Corporations would rather throw food away during closing hours, instead of packaging it up and donating it to the homeless shelters—or centers for abused women.

Ђeir motto was simple: if we can’t sell it and make our money back, and profit from that as well, then screw it!

All bets were off!

Trash the food! It’s against the law to reheat cooked food and sell it to the public, but some restaurants do it anyway, breaking the law and threatening the employee. Ye talk ye get fired, and that simple.

Barbaric employers art taking over the earth, fire the black man and hire the unqualified Cuban, whom will most likely vote Republican on the Presidential Ballot, forgetting about the poor life they escape, and had to fight crashing waves and U.§. Border control and the Coast Guard to do so.

That type of employment slavery is going on in Miami-Dade County, across the country, and in Islamorada, Florida.

Humanity is the greatest hoax in earth’s history, if ye let me tell it.

And if ye think about it ye’ll know it’s true.

We’re born to die, imagine that.

Aha, you’re alive, and thy family and friends and material possessions bound ye to the earth!

Then ye suddenly die and thy life means nothing because families forget about ye through a stone’s throw of insurance money.

The more ye leave them, the faster they forget about ye; the less ye leave them, the more they thought about ye and bash ye and tarnish thy life and good name.

And the earth erases thy name with weeds and grass grown around thy plaque on the ground, in the cemetery.

Out of sight, out of mind.

Imagine recording thy life in the form of photographs and digital images (these days Instagram was the big thing on social networks, a complete waste of time).

Not just any picture, but photographs ye spent day and night collecting, editing, photo shopping, cropping, adding visual effects and labeling.

And, from the heart, like a diary entry, ye write vivid descriptions about each recorded image on those blank lines beside each photo, and there wasn’t much space to write what was going on with ye in the photo, despite the expensive $11.99 price of the actual album, that held 500 photographs.

Ђy images were protected by individual laminated sleeves, with slits on the sides for extraction of photos at will.

Ђe feeling behind every photo was something ye used to dream of, and fantasize about. Ye knew ye wanted to take pictures with those ye love and cherish, or take pictures of places, events and things before ye took them.

Ђe thought was Immortal in thy mind, and consumed thy expectations before the photo was born. It all started with the mind first, and the power and pulse behind the allowances of Life that makes it all possible.

Ye experience emotions of all kinds, going through a plethora of feelings combing over a plethora of images ye gathered through emotion, justifying why ye took those pictures in the first place, and why ye cared to show them to others, many of which ye never shared at all and never will; because you’re too afraid and ashamed of the outcry of the loved ones ye have cherished in thy old, dusty, fairly new, just bought and just created photo albums.

Notwithstanding, in the end, when photos of yourself, naked and exposed, caught out there doing Lord knew what with strangers, flashes from cameras immortalize thy indiscretions, the images owned by Caucasian production companies, plantations, if ye will, whoring and systematically capturing the darkened skin of ignorant, thrill-seeking amateurs, the cruelest of intentions, and exploiting them for profit, with a one-time payment made out in the form of cash (under the table profit).

Ye couldn’t file taxes on that kind of money, so there’s no record that they paid ye in the first place, a personal check, not a cashier’s check would suffice. But they don’t want a paper trail leading back to their deception of lies, and foolish trickery.

At this point ye realize that a colorful image, or a black and white one, hath an opposite. Photographs became §carlet Letters, and we all know that §carlet can write her tail off, if indeed she was a writer and not just a character in a book, such as I right now, a character in a book.

Ђose types of toxic images weren’t pleasing or good for the human soul, as the mortals say.

I say this because I am plagued with the images and pictures of darkened nightmares, cleverly, beautifully disguised as dreams, and the vividness of them scares me, and mocks everything I am, what I stand for, and what I am about; and the reason a nightmare pretends to be something it wasn’t, accompanied with utter heartbreak, was simple: a nightmare represented the death of a dream, and that was another, stronger, more vicious nightmare in itself.

One I wasn’t prepared for.

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