Armed Robbery Meditation

Motivational Speakers Sydney and Bestselling Author, Luke S. Kennedy, gives us a little teaser of his upcoming book, Sex, Drugs, & a Buddhist Monk. This upcoming book is the second installment to his #1 Bestseller, Stabbed Ego - A Thug's Journey to Enlightenment.

An additional story I've just added to my next book, 'Sex, Drugs, & a Buddhist Monk'.. Yet to be edited. Check it and tell me what you think.

I don’t want to do this. What if they’ve got weapons too? Fuck em, I’ll be first. No! You might go to jail!
I could hear my inner conversation trying to pierce through my verbal conversation.
“Punchy, how much do you think they’ll have?” Stintz, my old friend asked me.
Punchy, my nickname, I had picked up through graffiti and winning organized street fights. I loved it.
“I’m not sure bro, don’t know about cash, but they’ll have heaps of pills.” My mouth spat out, trying to drown the other conversation in my head. My thoughts were always there. My thoughts were always loud. 
Those loud thoughts were the reason I was sitting in that car about to run through a drug dealer’s house to rob him and more than likely his friends. A couple of hours before that moment, I was sitting on a warm couch with a bunch of my boys. The morning sun peeping through gaps in the curtains. It was the end of the second night without any sleep, but copious amounts of ecstasy, cocaine, and alcohol.
Time on drugs gave me what I was after; A slight reprieve from my overactive mind. It gave me some stillness. Some silent time. Silence of my mind. It helped me to care less what other people thought of me – for a short time that is. As the drugs started to wear off, and the misery of my harsh reality began to hit, my loud berserk thoughts were back in full force. And they were worse than before I got on the drugs. I didn’t want the thoughts back. How can I hold these thoughts back a little longer?
“Anyone got anymore drugs or alcohol?” I slurred, glancing around the room filled with pale, miserable faces. Purple bags sitting under every single defeated eye. There was no response besides a couple of weak and beaten shakes of the head.
“I think we’re done, brother.” Stintz, disclosing the information we were all trying to hide from. Stintz I met 4 years earlier, when he was 15 and I was 17. He was an innocent little skater boy back then. A young boy with an underlying mental health issue. He too was searching for stillness. He too craved silence.
With years of being amongst, and now a key player, of Sydney’s most renown graffiti and street fighting crew, Stintz’s defence, or more like attack, of the manic mind was to not only bury it in substance abuse, but to also crush it down through adrenaline based, life on the edge (literally), experiences. These experiences were not your sky-diving, or swimming with sharks type of activities. They were bursting into a business, jumping the counter, throwing an employee to the ground, and robbing them. Or like me, he also enjoyed a fight. 
“Punchy, do you think I could beat him? He’s a big boy.” Stintz once asked. 
“Brother, he might be big but his heart is nowhere near yours.”
“With you in my corner, Punchy, I’ll take on anyone.”
“I’ll always be in your corner, my boy.” 
I was the main fighter in the crew, having never backed down. I was happy to be labelled a fighter. It gave me an identity – one that helped me feel confident, at least on the outside. In front of the boys I was this big, strong, leader. I could handle any situation and wouldn’t back down to anyone. I even looked happy.
Internally though, it couldn’t have been further from the truth. I was anxious, depressed, paranoid, and a lot of nights I would cry myself to sleep. In social situations away from the false confidence of gang life, I was incredibly awkward – if I had to meet someone for the first time, I would stutter, sweat, and be inside my head trying to workout how to get away. The label of fighter and leader I grasped with both hands because it helped me fake my way into feeling confident.
All this fighting, all this crime, all this drama… there was a deep method to our franticness. 
I’m not sure if Stintz was aware, I don’t suppose I was back then either, but each of these things we were up to, was again, the result of us searching to relax our thoughts a bit. At the time of us committing these devastating acts, our thoughts were gone. It was pleasurable. I look at everything that most people are addicted to, or enjoy, and it soon becomes evident, that the addiction, or joy, is caused by our lust of stillness. Of silence. 
Even playing a sport. You’re totally present. A golfer for example isn’t addicted to walking a course in shitty suit pants, nor do they enjoy hitting more bad shots than good. They’re in love with those microseconds of pure bliss as their eyes scan that ball floating through the air. The world could be ending outside that golf course but none of that matters to a still mind.
Stintz was really a good kid, but he was still a kid. Other people his age were being influenced by sports stars or celebrities. His mentors were leading him to jail. 
“Well fuck this…” I said a little louder to my zombie-like friends, trying to force some energy into myself, and them. “If we’ve got none left, let’s go get some!”
So there we sat. Stintz and I. In a stolen car, outside of a drug dealer’s unit block. Morning walkers strutting past, a spring in their fresh steps. Their joyous energy made me feel sick. It was a stark reminder of how far my life was from theirs.
My thoughts raced...
Fuck. What if he has a gun? Hope he has heaps of cash too. How many people are in there? Should’ve brought more boys with us. But then we’d have to split the cash up more. Maybe we will go back and get some more boys. Fuck doing it. I want to just go back to the house. I don’t want to do this. What will the boys think if you bitch it? You have to go in. Anyone watching us? Should I do this? Fuck, what will dad do if I get busted?
“Alright, let’s go.”

Silence…

Soldiering across a grass patch still soaked with morning mist, I zeroed in on the front security door. It was more a hindrance door than a security door for my fat foot with 120 kilos behind it.

My armed robbery meditation was underway.

My body was tense, my physical being rushing, my accomplice ferocious in his skipped step. The grass sped past my feet. But… my mind was still. Taking a presence filled deep breath, I lent on my left leg and lifted my right foot. BANG! 
The hindrance door wasn’t even that. It fell off the hinges and crumbled inwards like the first domino beginning it’s effect. It was loud. That sound meant disorder.
Stintz was right behind me as we pounced over the now floored door, and ran up carpeted steps. I could smell bacon cooking. Although the sounds of our raid were evident; doors smashing to the ground, our feet stomping upstairs, behind all of that… was a stillness. A deep silence within. A focus. My thoughts were gone. It’s what I always yearned for. It’s what all of us want.
Having bought drugs of this guy before, we knew exactly where his unit was. Two levels up sat our target. Reaching level 1, I heard a door slam closed. I noticed another open an inch, probably someone eyeing to see who had just trampled through their front security door. We didn’t care about their restful Sunday morning, we only cared about the reprieve from our minds. Turning up the final staircase, we ran up the remaining steps as I readied myself to kick down another door. 
I froze. There he stood - our silent mind dealer. Standing outside his unit door, barefoot, looking like he just woke up. He had no shirt on his white skinny body. A faded, poorly designed, dragon tattoo went from his belly button up over his chest. His hands behind his back.
“Punchy!” I felt Stintz grab my right arm. “Look out, he’s got something.” Stintz said in a whispered scream.
Our target heard what Stintz said, and responded “It’s only what you’re after. I don’t want any bullshit.” Revealing what he held in his hands. A plastic bag filled with smaller sealed up satchels. Inside the satchels sat our little colourful pills of hope. Pills of solace. I went to smile before realizing that wasn’t what tough guys do. 
“Where’s the cash?” Stintz shot out.
“Come on boys, I’ve got family here.” He pleaded.
“Well, you better want to go grab that cash then before we bust down that door too.” I said, nodding towards his blue front door that stood tall behind him.
“Wait a sec.” He said, handing me the bag of pills and turned around.
“Hey.” I said, grabbing his arm firmly. He turned and looked me in my eyes. “Don’t fuck around.” I growled.
He shook his head and with a turn of a key, opened his door before sliding inside, not wanting to reveal to those inside that he was being robbed.
“Bro.” Stintz said. I looked over at him and although standing in the one spot, he was bouncing a little. He was excited. He looked like a kid about to run out to a filled up Christmas tree on December 25. “Let’s just run in there!” He suggested.
“Nah lad, just chill.” I said looking around at the rest of the units. I could hear people moving around and I pictured them all looking through their peep holes at the robbery going on.
“Just chill.” I said again.
I heard an unclick of a lock on our targets blue door. Sliding back out, he had another plastic bag, this time smaller. “Here, it’s all I’ve got. I’m done with this shit.” He passed the batten. It felt as though he was handing me his old life. Ridding himself of the drama that being a drug dealer comes with. Drama I was happy to take for now.
“Look what we got boys!” I said entering the room filled with depleted boys. Throwing the bag of pills on the ground I noticed a touch of energy raised in each person. Stintz sat on the floor to lay down. His energy went the other way.
A robbery can take it out of you. 
“Open your mouth brother.” I said to Stintz as I started throwing ecstasy at him. After 4 attempts one landed in his mouth as he chased it with some water. 
“Throw me another.” He said, as I swallowed 2.
These mornings were far too common. At the time I didn’t know why I searched to always further my high. I had no idea why my boys were the same. We all suffered internally, so why did we keep doing things that ended in us suffering even more? At the time I didn’t know why. 
I do now.

After being through all of the above (and a hell lot more), I'm incredibly grateful to now be able to help people through my experiences. Being a motivational speaker has allowed my to inspire a large range of audiences into improving their live - whether it's emotionally, physically, or financially, I love to help!

What do you think? I love feedback!

 
Luke S. Kennedy | Motivational Speakers Sydney | Mental Health Advocate 
Author of 'Stabbed Ego' which was Best-seller in two categories; Mental Health - Depression & Spiritual - Self-Help