I was 12 years old when a Blue Gem razor blade was about to slice my wrist.
“If you end your life, you’re never know how The Story
Ends,” whispered a voice.
I became calm.
I decided to spite everyone that abused me by allowing life
to go on.
I was shot at several times while playing Hide N Seek in the
summer nights of The South Bronx of burnt buildings and bullies. The bullets
whizzed by as I ran faster than I ever ran before to the point of everything
slowing down.
I was a 10 years old who had looked into the heart of a
lightning bolt that struck several feet away from the stoop we sat on to trade
baseball cards and comic books.
My friends were tumbled back by the force of the bolt as I
was.
They never saw it coming.
I saw another reality inside the lightning strike that made
me think of an episode of Star Trek where a man was transformed by cosmic
energy into something beyond humanity.
I crawled inside a TV set among the garbage of our backyard.
I see a vast wasteland, said the first president of The FCC. I saw a cowboy
ride from Death Valley Days and into The South Bronx as President Ronald Reagan
who promised to help my town rebuilt itself.
Mission: Impossible
was my favorite spy show broadcasted from the station with the Eye In The Sky
logo. Like Star Trek, it motivated me to technology. I invented stuff that
worked and went to the library to borrow books on how to build a computer from
junkyards and abandoned buildings of The South Bronx. I wanted A Piece Of The
Action like a little kid said with a switchblade in another episode of Star
Trek
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