Freedom (Photo credit: Bohman)
Rev. Martin Luther King, head-and-shoulders portrait, seated, facing front, hands extended upward, during a press conference / World Telegram & Sun photo by Dick DeMarsico. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
Day 8. The maintenance man who works on Saturday came to my apartment with another man. The new man looked at the ceiling and made some comments about it. The Saturday maintenance man asked me if I was going to be home. I said to him I probably would be going out and he asked permission to enter my apartment in case I wasn’t home. I had to say yes, otherwise, they’d use the excuse that they’d come and no one was home. They come in and out of my apartment every day and don’t ask permission. They told me they’d be back in an hour to repair the ceiling.
I went out and returned about 3:30 p.m. Of course, as I expected, my ceiling was in the same condition as before. It still had the holes. Nothing had been done.
I like to know why they’d even showed up. They probably did something to my apartment while I was out. What, I don’t know. But I know they were in my apartment, they left hints all over the place, as they always do.
We targets sure live miserable lives. The crap we have to put up with every day is disgusting.
Like when I take a walk. I feel I’m walking a gauntlet. On both sides there are people ready to strike, beat me down. I have to zigzag my way to wherever I go. I can’t walk in a straight line. I have to climb over fences, cross to the other side of the street, climb up hills to escape the perps. I have to walk as if I see nothing, feel nothing, hear nothing. I have to become a zombie.
I can’t just sit for a moment and enjoy a sunny day. Or stop to talk with someone. Or go sit in the park and enjoy a beautiful, spring day.
It’s always move on, move on. Don’t stop. Don’t look. Don’t be. Just do what I have to do and disappear from sight.
We really are prisoners. We have no freedom. No freedom whatsoever.
And that reminds me, I once wrote a blog about freedom. Someone who lives near me was outside singing the words from my blog, exactly the same words I’d written. And, of course, he was making fun of it and laughing.
But it didn’t bother me. It felt flattering. I wrote words he remembered. And maybe some day, the idiot will really listen to the words and understand what they mean.
I like this quote by Martin Luther King on freedom: Freedom is never voluntarily given by the oppressor; it must be demanded by the oppressed.
And that to me means, we have to fight for what we want. We can’t just sit back and expect to stop gang stalking unless we do something about it.
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