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I have heard it for decades from scores of individuals: "When I retire, I'm going to write like you."

I'm retired and I can't write the stories that need to be told. I am filled with anger these days. I have been deceived by several family members and friends, but I can't reveal these human truths. I would only be asking for trouble and I'm not in a stable frame of mind to find myself mired in more volatile circumstances.

But I do have an emotional side and I sometimes lose control of myself. In those cases, I could give a damn about the consequences. There is an advantage to being an old man. Who can really harm you when you are going to be dead? The elderly have rights that nobody else has when it comes to expressing one's feelings and opinions.

Rather then explode, I am counting to ten. I have also doubled by Xanax doses. I am a pseudo journalist and a mediocre writer. I hate to be deceived. I am holding politicians' feet to the fire and laughing loudly. I will not tolerate their lies. I have fought these bastards hundreds of times and the scars above my eyes, the broken nose and the missing teeth I wear proudly, much like women offer no apologies for the stretch marks that attest to their children's births.

But I have been deceived by those closest to me. I know I'm paying for bad karma, but don't they care about their karma too? They can cut me into a thousand pieces, but don't they understand that the pen is mightier than the sword?

One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten. Breathe in, breathe out, Breathe in, breathe out.

I'm better. Temporarily. Anger is a terrible state, but some of the best writing is forged in the fire of ire. For everyone concerned, I can distract myself with the editing of my epic fictional/realistic memoir--The Coronavirus Chronicles. I can also distract with a contribution to the community by promoting downtown with my brush painting downtown a bright red.

I have mentioned that I have chosen solitude as a refuge, but you can never escape yourself. But being alone in a quiet place does seem to relieve me from some of my psychological pain. The Brownsville Vulture's Robby Williams-Cardenas entertains us with his many physical maladies, but he seems liberated from mental illness. Others opine that he is crazy like a fox.

I have fought my demons for decades, but I have tried to use them as muses. I have utilized their energy to produce many books of poetry and prose. I implement humor to soften the edges, but when I'm pounding the anvil, it's difficult to dull their sharpness.

What do you do when you are most wretched but don't want to succumb to the temptation of taking your ton of flash? I ain't talking pounds. There is no such thing as partial vengeance. You are either all in or forever hold your piece and perish in a pyre of self-consumption.

You have to leap into action. I could rent a bike behind the northside bus terminal and cruise along the Hudson Trails. The sun and exercise wouldn't hurt. Instead of allowing the four walls to immure me, I could take the last bus, head downtown, duck into the bars, eat and entertain myself in conversations with the several acquaintances I'm sure to meet.

Since my present problems have me scrambling for options, I'm thinking that a few months in Mexico City might be a viable recourse where my compadres have huge houses in the capital and Cuernavaca and I can live free.

They are often not at either residence. When they are, I am like an uncle to their children and grandchildren. They have a deep love for me that I would find comforting at this juncture in my life when those who are supposed to love me treat me with a sentiment worse than hate.

I have a six-month lease here that makes heading south an easy call. I have lived at the Sun Colony Apartments next to HEB Plus on several occasions and I have been on good terms with management. When I return from Mexico, I will be down to a few months and they may cut me slack. If not, I have financial matters that require me to spend February in Brownsville.

My time is short. I need to suck dry the little marrow remaining in my bones. I cannot go gently into the good night as the poet Dylan Thomas warns. If I were going to remain in the area, I would move to the Island. I have made inquiries and I could reside there comfortably. I don't have anything that keeps me in Brownsville since I'm not engaged socially and any business or family matter can easily be resolved via the internet.

I'm at a point where like the author Ambrose Bierce I want to disappear.