A Cracked Lens

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Other  |  House: Booksie Classic


A Cracked Lens

Submitted: June 04, 2018

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Submitted: June 04, 2018

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I see her standing by the door.  She’s framed by the glaring neon lights dancing around her.  The deafening bass in the music booms right through me and feels like it’s shaking everything inside me.  It sounds like lasers and earthquakes and the whole room looks like the acid dream of some kind of sci-fi character.  The sweat of the crowd rises in steamy clouds all around but the odorous fumes of my fellow writhing humans can’t bother me now as I smile through at the garishly glowing red, green, purple, yellow, and blue lights.  All I want is to make contact with her.  Some kind of alien amidst the same-faced crowd.  A connection with her.  The prettiest face I can remember seeing.

So I push through the crowd.  Glancing off each person’s immediate personal-space bubble with a small hand gesture yelling, Scuse me, pardon me, comin’ through.Swimming through an endless sea of faces in a room that’s too small to contain the thronging violence of our sexual longings and social loneliness come as jerky and spastic motions we call dancing.  I’m smiling widely with all my teeth showing and my tongue sloshing back and forth in my mouth and the heat of the air is a taste that pushes its way through the roof of my mouth straight into my brain.

I feel everything.

I see everything.

And then there she is.  Right in front of me.  Enclosed on all sides by bodies similarly in motion. Lights bathing her as a darkly-lit kaleidoscope blossoming at the edge of my vision.  There’s an invisible wall around her that I breach with a swift motion and then I’m with her dancing directly in front of her.  Her eyes flick over me and settle on the area where my chest meets my neck and I feel a wave of heat pull me closer to her.  I have won.  I have succeeded already.  The bass booms.  The lights flash everywhere.  The crowd presses us close. 

We dance together.

-

It goes by different names.  They call it this or that and it comes as herbs, capsules, pills, powders, liquids, whatever.  Comes brown, white, pink, purple, green, red, every color you can think of.  You can swallow it, snort it, mix it, shoot it, smoke it, whatever. 

Sometimes it makes you feel high, sometimes low, sometimes stoned, sometimes blitzed, blazed, glazed, wasted, plastered, fucked up, like you’re rollin’, faded, on one, you know, gone.

Totally gone.

It’s different than being sober.  I can’t quite say how.  If I think really hard about it sometimes it’s like dreaming or being tired or being sick, but in a good way.  In the best way.  In the only way I ever want to be.

I don’t ever want to feel anything but good.

-

We stand outside sucking on cigarettes as the white wisps of smoke we exhale swirl up to meet the dull silver pinpoints of iridescently glowing starlight that are nestled between swathes of inky night sky.  She’s laughing at some stupid joke I made that I’ve already forgotten and then I look at her.  Deep into her eyes.

I see the whole night reflected there.

And everything’s pulsing.  The rhythm of the club still vibrates to the world outside and the air is shaking slightly in time to the beat of my heart that moves with my craven want and desire that cracks like in flame.  The feeling swills in my gut above my genitals and it’s like a knot of worms wriggling around and I just want to thrash at myself and scratch beneath the muscle and beneath the bone and I need her I need her more than anything more than anything.  Like a giant krill-like insect my lust squirms so violently I feel as if it’ll puncture out my pubic area and all everything I feel for her will spill as an unending waterfall from the heat and swollen pressure of my penis.

We kiss.

Explosions of red and gold.  Flowers and fireworks.  Endless crowds cheering. 

I am a King.

I am a God.

I am Love itself.

We embrace.

She is so warm.  Like a spot of sunlight leaking through a window.

She is so soft.  Like a bed after a long day.

Something in me sighs with a pleasure that is almost a pain.

And an abysmal fear seeds itself in that secret place deep inside me.

It whispers with the voice of the Eldest Demons

This will not last.

And I hold her tighter.

-

The first time I did it I realized it was the best feeling in the world.  Which is funny because I didn’t feel much at all.  And that’s the point don’t you see?  Why do you think people give up their entire life for it?  Why do you think people chase it with everything they’ve got?  Years and years of happiness.  Years and years of stability.  Years and years of normal family life and upstanding citizenship.  One little trigger.  One little crack in the window of perception of what you know to be yourself and boom.It’s all done.  Right then.

Then you get what?

All of it.

The ridiculous highs.  The crippling lows.

The puke in the toilet you almost drown in because you’ve been losing consciousness vomiting the past 6 hours.  The headache that’s like a jackhammer covered in spikes drilling straight into the center of your brain.  The collapsed veins and the shakes and the stomach that can’t hold anything but diarrhea about to splurt from your ass at any moment.  The uncertainty of any reality and the paranoia that everything’s going to collapse at any given moment and you’re just blistering in the moonlight because you’re fried.

That’s what it is.  You give up everything if you stay there too long.

It’s worth it sometimes.

Because the pain of staying can be too much.

I wonder how people do it.  Life is hard you know?

The effort comes effortlessly to some.

Is it religion? Faith?

Is it family? Love?

Is it work? Purpose?

Is it partying? Pleasure?

I’m not sure.

Whatever it is it’s not as ragged.  It’s not about to break like this is. 

-

We see the first spirals of sunlight creeping over the horizon sliding beneath the cold black-blue of the night sky.  A lighter tint washes over the world and I feel almost frantic.  Yes, she is with me, somehow I’ve led her this far out into the strange and uncertain chaos of the world beyond the party.  Beyond the warm cushion of what we know, a place to simply be.  So now what are we?

She shivers in her thin black dress.  I’m a nice guy I put my jacket around her and she smiles at me.  We get in my car and with a quick turn of the key the engine quietly purrs to life.  I plug in my smartphone and I turn on some chill tunes, a mix of funky beats going smooth and slow, I know the nights coming to a close.  The car is warm and comfortable and I hear her breathe in deeply and I look at her.  She sighs a little contented sigh while smiling a little as she nestles deeper into the pillowy cushion of her seat.  I look away quickly and pull away from the parking lot.

I can’t pay attention to her now.  Not really.  She tries to talk a little and sure I’ll acknowledge her with soft little sounds.  “Mmhm, oh, ok, ha ha, yeah.”  Are the only responses I’ll give right now.  She’s in the car already.  She’s going where I go.  As long as I treat her politely she’ll be with me all night.

My focus is elsewhere.

-

Comedowns are the worst.  With anything.  You get hangovers and it’s like you’re going to die.  If you’ve been speedin’ all night you just feel fucking wrecked.  Your body’s totally burnt out and all you wanna do is maintain and maintain.  Even if you were to have sex with your most desirable partner during a comedown you’d feel just like plastic rubbing against plastic.  Totally dried up inside.  Like you wanna die.  Sure the smart thing to do would be to get clean.  Eat a healthy meal and hydrate and get back to homeostasis.  Get back to how the normal folk live.  But that’s not what you want see?  What you want is to maintain because you don’t want to go back.  Go back to dealing with things.  Just leave the old bandaid on let it rot on the wound if you have to but don’t ever rip it off.

Because then your blood would spill out into open air.  

-

My heart rate is up.  My eyes dart back and forth across the road.  I texted my guy before we even got to the car, I’m not gonna risk texting or calling while driving.  I know a lot of people go crazy when they’re holding.  Not me.  I lay low.  I drive right at the speed-limit.  I let people pass me.  I use all my turn signals.  I keep my gun in the door right next to me.  I’m real careful.

Fuck getting pulled over.  Fuck dealing with police.

Fuck getting road ragers hassling me.  Fuck all that.

I just wanna get what I need.

My dude looks out for me.  He knows me.  He knows I’m cool.

I’ve hooked him up with a lot of people.  I’ve made him a lot of money.

I don’t ask for much.

Just punctuality.

He keeps his phone open for me.  He knows I go out a lot.

It’s part of my appeal.  It’s how I meet people.

I don’t ask for much.  I don’t ask for good deals or anything although he does cut me a better price than most because he knows I’m loyal and an asset.

And we’re pretty cool.

We even hang out when I pick up sometimes.  Talk about business, about philosophy, about people, whatever.

I used to sling when I was starting up.  Not anymore though.  The cash is quick but there’s too much risk.  And it’s uncertain.  And I don’t trust people.

I keep my distance from all his other hookups.  Even people I set him up with once I do I generally avoid them.  I just wanna get what’s mine.  When he’s got other guests I just grab my shit and bounce.  I’ve dealt with too many snitches and wackos before.  It’s easier this way. Less risk.

But I gotta stay up.

The floaty feeling in my chest is starting to fade.  Everything’s starting to come back blurry-sharp without the neon staticy haze to cushion me against the world.  I’m starting to panic at the thought that I’ll have to deal with being me again.  Instead of simply being.

FuCK.  I can’t hack it man.

She’s still talking.  Still saying some shit.  I smile and murmur responses but inside I’m starting to become boiling magma.  I could scream and kick her in the face.  Smash her head right out the window SHUT THE FUCK UP YOU STUPID BITCH.

FUCK.

And inside I become saltwater weeping down from the heavens.  I’ve been dying inside for the longest time and the only thing holding me up is the promise of the gods’ sacred nectar.  I need rivers of ecstatic feeling to slip through my veins.  I need golden light shining darkly behind my eyes.  I need it all.  I need. I need.

-

What’s worse than a comedown though is being completely dry.  Having nothing at all and no way to get anything.  That’s when the desperation hits.  That’s when you see people stand at corners and lift shit from stores and packin’ guns to hold up anyone.  That’s when you see people starving and digging through ashtrays just trying to get any kind of buzz. 

-

Nothing is magic in this world when you’re sober.  You can go to the moon and back and still rather sit in a closet doing some good dope. 

See because it goes direct to the brain.  All the pleasure vibes.  It’s not sensual.  It’s not from stimulation.

It’s fucking direct.

And it’s evasive.  The pain of simply being becomes the glory of simply being.  We don’t have to think about our isolation anymore.  The existential crush and anxiety of Oh god I am human and what the fuck?

It just IS.

And that’s why I’m here again.  Like I always am.  The girl is down.  I always make sure they’re cool before I pick them up.  Of course I need a girl.  Why the fuck am I needing?  Why the fuck am I picking up?

Numb Numb Numb and then validate and then stimulate for pleasure for an absence of pain.

That’s all it is.

And isn’t it glorious that that’s all it is?

It’s nothing so overly complex what I’m doing.

I’m pressing a button.  As many times as I can press.

Here I am now.  I go up to the door while she waits in the car. I’ll share a little with her.  Enough to get her going and make her feel like I’m generous.  But only a little.  This shit’s mine.

 “What’s good homie.” We clasp hands.  I see that he’s got company so I pull out the bills.  The transactions quick.  He knows what I want.  He used to tell me like oh I’ve got some new shit or oh I’m hooking you up special with the good stuff.  I’ve been with him for long enough.  I’ve netted him more hookups than anyone.  I’m essentially a ghost partner.  He knows I could get my own thing going but out of mutual respect for our attitudes I stay out of his shit and he stays out of mine.  He takes this kind of risk and I take on the role of consumer.  He knows I’m not about the money.  He only uses socially.  Rarely.  I’m social to get to using.  He knows the game and he knows I know it.  He knows most his network only survives because of me.  I’ve made him a lot of money but that’s ok.  I don’t mind giving him the hookups.  In the end he’s the one who would go down.  He’s the one that’s gotta go through and hook it up and deal with the fiends and the business bullshit.  I work an easy but steady job at a nearby store.  Yeah I gotta deal with some bullshit there but it’s easy.  There’s much less at stake.  And what’s at stake?

Everything.

If you get caught up you’re trapped.  Literally in a cell.

And I’m already trapped in this body.

The only way to get free is to get gone.  And yeah I know you can get in prison.  But you’re in fucking prison.  That’s limiting, obviously.

Looks like he’s hooked me up with some good shit.  He always does.  But I remind myself of it every day when I see him.  Of course I have a shitty car and a tiny flat.  Of course I have no fat or muscle almost.  Of course.

My diet is mainly this shit.  I eat when I feel like I’ll pass out.

I don’t really care about surviving.  Death is probably the ultimate freedom.  The ultimate cure. 

Like sex.

Like getting gone.

But permanent.

Permanently nothing.

Permanent zero.

-

Doing too much is hard to explain.  On one hand it’s dangerous because you’re fucked up and may never come back and you’re at high risk to do something stupid and get caught up with danger and with police.  On the other hand….

Isn’t that the point in getting fucked up?

To go beyond the limits of yourself?

-

I’v been so fucked up for so long now.  I’m forgetting myself again as we hurl down the highway at 90 miles per hour.

What happened to being careful and cautious?

Especially now that I’m holding.

She doesn’t care. 

I’ve switched up the music and I’m playing some rock music.

I’m so desperate just to get home.  Get to the safe zone.

Where I can lose myself.  Have a brief respite.

Yeah I know it’s nothing. It’s void.  It’s only the briefest of hours in the neverending orbit of the Earth but goddammit let me breathe for one fucking moment in transcendant nirvana.

She’s laughing a bit.  We’re having fun.  I wonder if she knows how desperate I am inside.  How I’m just thinking about getting the buzz going again.

I always feel a little twinge of guilt when I pick up.  Like maybe I should stop.  Like maybe there’s other, better things to pursue in this life.  Things like love, grandeur, spirituality, charity, family, you know, success.  But what’s my motivation?  Recognition?  Someone to pat me on the back and say, “Oh hey, great job in this life.  You’ve done well.  Thank you for your accomplishments and your active participation.”  Well, maybe that’s what I’m supposed to want.  I just can’t really get worked up about that kind of stuff because, at the end of the moment, when I’m quietly suspended in a space between spaces, all I want is respite.  I suppose that says something about the regular and every day of the moments we call reality.  We call entertainment escapes from reality.  Isn’t that funny?  Shouldn’t entertainment be thought of as supplemental of reality?  Like, it’s an additional pleasure.  But no, we call a good book or a movie or a song a little escape from reality.  Something to enjoy.  Take us out of ourselves.  Well what does that say of life in general?  Of the daily structure of how we live and survive?  Why do we crave escapes?  Even quiet moments being with a loved one after a long, hectic, chaotic day.  Even those quiet moments we see as escaping from what we have to deal with.  I suppose that’s unfair.  That we as vulnerable and unknowing creatures thrust so unwittingly into life have to deal with suffering, oppression, tyranny, discomfort, and all the other terrible things in life.  It’s so unfair because it should be that the terrible moments are the moments of unreality.  Escape implies leaving a terrible thing.  Escaping from reality implies that our natural lot in life is that life is suffering.  It’s unfair.  It should be that we occasionally and accidentally stumble into a bad moment.  That reality is not something to escape from but enjoy.  To sit back and savor our lifetime and occasionally have to deal with some small unpleasantry.  Reality shouldn’t be something to escape from but rather a bad moment should be something to escape from.  But this has become what we understand to be general reality.  It’s shit.  Utter fucking shit.  And all I do is seek respite.

So I gotta get high.  Don’t you see?  If I don’t I’ll be trapped here forever.

We’re almost there.  I’ve slowed down a little.  I’ve come to my senses.  I can’t be speeding or I’ll get pulled over.  The cops like to set up little speed traps all along here.  Exits coming up.

Ok, turn now.

-

I didn’t know anything about drugs growing up.  I didn’t grow up in particularly bad neighborhoods.  Although maybe I was just too young to remember how bad they were.  I know as a kid I lived in a trailer park at one point.  But drugs weren’t something I was really around.  My parents were lower middle class for most of my childhood years, but we were never poor.  We didn’t have a lot of money but we always had food on the table.  And I had toys.  And I could play outside and do, you know, normal kid things. 

I wonder when it started.  This awareness that there were ways to circumvent reality.  That there were ways to numb, enhance, escape, sensationalize, and add to a moment.  The moment could be good, bad, sad, full of rage, full of hate, full of joy, whatever, but you could add a completely new axis in the dimensions of feeling.  I mean feeling as in physical, emotional, mental, even spiritual.

I remember feeling so sad.  So sad.  I wasn’t a teenager yet but I was close.  I remember arguing with my mother.  I remember feeling such hate.  I remember feeling hated.  Wanting to die.  Crying until I felt dead inside.  Completely dried out.  Shaking like my breastbone would shatter.  Like the whole world was melting and there was nothing but searing heat at my temples burning like hot iron and I couldn’t breathe my lungs just being squeezed by anger and sorrow.  I remember something about that never went away.  Those little and large grievances and betrayals leave cracks in our perception of reality.  Cracks in our lie of life.

I’m sure it all depends on your perspective.  Not everyone sees pleasure as an escape, I’m sure many see it as part of life, even the norm.  I do not.

I’m not asking for pity.  I know many have struggled, more severely than I have.  I know, compared to many in the world, I’ve lived in luxury.

But to say that I feel good about myself, my story, and my life.

Well I just can’t lie to myself or to anyone like that.

Why do you think I’m here now?

My hand almost shaking.

Yeah I’m gonna fuck this bitch.  Because my cock needs it.  Because I need to feel my body buck against someone’s and for a moment I can feel like someone wants me and that love is real and that life is not pain even if the fuck is empty like it always is and I can’t feel myself come back out.  I can’t feel the love I want.  Those romance stories the movies, books, and cartoons promised.  Just a simpering and putrid lie and each time it’s a crippling disappointment.

My hand almost shaking.

Enhance myself.  Forget myself.

Why do you think I’m here now?

We pull into the driveway.

My hand almost shaking.

This is why I need drugs.  This is why I need drugs. This is why I need drugs.

This is why I need.

Drugs.

-

So now we pull into the driveway and the headlights bounce back the white glare of garishly bright white paint.  We get out of the car and she stumbles a bit on the unfamiliar steps the booze in her system has made her less careful.

Then we’re inside and she sees how I live.  The little clues I leave around that speak of what’s inside myself. 

I’ve cleaned up but I’ve left a jacket strewn across the couch.  I have a cheap painting hanging on the wall next to it.  I have a small bookshelf and a not-too-expensive laptop.  I don’t have a TV.  I have a dining table just big enough to sit two but only one chair for it.

I don’t want anyone around for long.

They make life too real. 

Each person is a bundle of possibilities and potentials.  What you see indicates the probability of them being a certain way.  That’s why we judge people based on race, height, weight, speech, what they look at, what they smell like, what they wear, the places they go.  No, these by-the-cover judgements are fallible but as far as appearances go they speak of a likeliness towards our understanding of how things work.

We clutch at the thread of logic that slowly unravels in a web of chaotic impossibilities.  We follow a line of meager meanings to vainly hold onto some idea that what we believe to be true can truly be true. 

And not just a hollowed out puppet show.

Full of void and dust and nothing and but shells that are painted caricatures of personality crashing against each other in a façade of reality that could collapse in on itself at any moment.

I’ve done this many times before.

And she seems to know the dance.

We’ll maybe kiss a bit. Sloppy/passionate/lusty.

Grope at each other.

Fuck. Rut. Hump. Horizontal groove.

Sex.

Then we’ll sleep a little while until we wake and I’ll make up some excuse of having to go somewhere and drop her off wherever is convenient.

We step through the front door of the house and I turn on a light.  Everything is dimly lit in the bare bulb and it feels good to be inside.  She leaves her bag by the door and follows me to the bedroom.  Sometimes they’re desperate.  Barely through the door and clothes are coming off and jumping on me, but luckily she’s not like that.  I go over to the table and get the stuff out of my pocket.  I roll up a joint and I break up some of the powder with my driver’s license.  I roll up a dollar bill and dome a quick line, then I spark the joint.  I offer it to her and she takes a little hit.  As the smoke plumes around I feel like I’m seeing her for the very first time.  Feels like static waves of violet longing are crashing around my sensation and I feel the hollowness of my being pulse wildly inside.  God she’s gorgeous.  It seems fake.  This moment.  Like some kind of fevered caricature of the lust for love that I’ve been holding inside for so long.  The love that could somehow match the existential self-hatred that is the void of my gut yearning for relief.  Some kind of magnetism to draw us towards each other and not mind that we’re on a rock hurtling through space spinning endlessly in a vacuum of darkness punctuated by tiny pinpoints of light so coldly far away from each other. 

I want her so.

But I know the want is empty.  For what I so crave is not just her touch.  It is not just to empty my seed into her womb.  Or even to coo sweet soft nothings of affection.  Not even a life together and a child together can quench my longing for her that is a chaos and raving sea of discontented and jagged black lightning cutting through my world of darkness to here.  No, what I so want is not even her.

It is the sacred embrace.

That I can only see through the portal of a visage.  To have an eye gaze so steadily back into mine own and to know that we are both nothing and everything and yes that only what we have known in our lifetimes has come unto this very moment that is a pinnacle of our experience.

But that is an impossibility is it not?

To be so knowing with someone.  To be inside and outside theirs and for them to be yours.  And to know that in a lifetime that is a diseased chimera of experience washing out the colors of a dreamworld that you and they are real.  Truly real and knowing of yourself and them.  That you are worth everything to them.  That they would give up everything for you.  That your presence is holy to them as they are to you.

That they love you as you love them.

That you have found the illusory and ever-present myth, the one.

And I stare at her.  The smoke dancing around her head.  And I wonder if this moment is but one in infinite and perhaps this moment speaks towards my malcontent dissatisfaction in of itself.  I wonder perhaps if there is no such thing as The One that all those cheesy romance novels and movies and holidays have insidiously pressed me into believing.  Perhaps just to watch her silently thrive in a cloud of marijuana smoke in this moment is the greatest gift of all.  To watch the light gleam off her dully glowing skin and admire the small details about her that you could never notice unless you just sit quietly with her and focus entirely on her.  Perhaps that is the meaning of love?

And I know I am lying to myself right now.

I know I’m weeping incessantly in my heart.  And her beauty makes it all the more painful.  To watch her as a work of art and admire her in this way it tears at me more so.  The craving.  The desire to thrust all my worries, fears, joys, longings, everything at her and receive unconditional support and reciprocation and poetic interaction.

To be in a world between worlds, a shining oasis of heaven upon earth, in every moment and eternal sigh in no moment only with the one I so love.

And to know that I am too jaded and cynical.  Too visceral and too hateful and too distrusting.

I could never allow them to be close like that.  Never open again.  Then I would be too raw.  And I’ll just bleed through the fragile veiny walls of my heart all over the floor and my very life will be coughed out as I gag and choke upon betrayal upon resentment upon hidden discontent.

No.

We cannot ever breach the walls of intimacy by our own hand again.

Except with getting fucked up.  Buzzed.  Wasted. Faded. Stoned. High. High. High.

So high.

That is true intimacy.

Pleasure in the most hedonistic sense.  That’s all love is right?  We’re just getting things from each other.  Things to ignite our sense of justice or feelings of general goodness or even a kind of erotic and carnal satiation.

For we thirst to thrive in this life.  And to thrive is to feel and to avoid lack of feeling or bad feeling.

And that is my boon with myself.  I am the love affair.  I am the so-called One.

And I will not, never, give myself to another like that again.

To make myself dependent as a suckling pup shakily nursing itself upon its mother’s teat as she’s slaughtered by the wolf that then, without hesitation, devours the pup that comprehends naught the danger that its very birth has preordained it to.  The danger of pain unbound by any false pretense of mercy or the lie of justice.  No, even emotions can be preyed upon.  Even the mind and the soul and the body can be besieged by predators that will tear them apart without hesitation for that is simply their function and their sole purpose of existence.  For sadism is a marred and devious creature that will leer out from the depths of beauty and partake in the flesh of vulnerability.  And why?  Simply because what pains you can pleasure another.  And pleasure is the goal.  Feeling good is the goal.

I want to feel good.

The dollar bill skates along the table as I reach down with my nostril and suck up another line of lumpy white powder.  An icy velvet sting coats my sinuses and my eye waters slightly.  I snort a couple times to get it in the back of my throat as far as possible.  I take the joint from her and take a deep long hit from it, the acrid smoke tickling my lungs and throat almost making me cough. 

Now I’m amped and blazed at the same time.

And this is what it’s fucking about see? 

Everything’s slated a kind of flat feel.  Kind of a flat edge to everything.  I’m out of myself already. 

And what a relief it is.  To feel gone.  Faded out.

Not so close to the template of humanity and human wants and needs and disappointments that I have twisted into becoming.

What relief.

-

I’m so high right now.

It’s like…

When you’re asleep.  And you’ve been asleep so long that you forget you’re dreaming.  And you just float from world to world.  I can finally forget I’m living and float through the world.

And I float to her smile that slides through the front of my face and nestles right behind my eyes between my thoughts and the physical realm so that all I can see and all I can think of is

“You’re…beautiful…

-hits spliff and while exhaling-

…you know?”  voice comes out thick and milked from heat.

Oh god I want to press myself into her.  Be unborn by my own affection in a moment.  To become mechanized with the pistons and the revolutions of the earth’s rotations reflected in the profane parody that is the mockery of my own rotary movement as my hips weave up and down by a tidal push and pull into her and almost out of her thrust and thrusting as far as we could go but hoping to throw our soul beyond where our bodies end and clutch onto that sensation of togetherness and being wanted for but a moment but

Flat.

Do another line.

Cuts into my sinuses.

The light in the room is really too bright.  Or maybe my eyes are just blurred with intoxication at this point.  A reflection of the fuzzy feeling blooming from the center of my mind.

Now.

Do it now.

She stares sleepily at me through half-opened eyes.

A sexy romantic groove whispers out the speaker’s (when did we turn on music?)

I lean in close and she gravitates towards me.

And the moment is a leap forward through nothingness that is a void of thought and trepidation and then we are embraced in a kiss.

Open mouth. Close mouth. Open mouth. Close mouth.

Slimy. Wet. Sliding. Wet.

Similar rhythm as sex.

The same parody that sex is to life kissing is a parody of sex and life.

And here we do not eat to survive but mock eating another’s face to live.

My face is a shining mask of sensation at this point tingling with biting electricity that feels like dark hues royal purple and light shades of electric blue purple and we breathe harder and faster as I grab her roughly and pull her closer to me.  We’re starting to heave and grate our bodies against each other’s and push away the air around us as we enter into a state of breathlessness that we try to sustain ourselves only with the taking in of the other’s fumes and flickers.

My fingers creep up her dripping thigh into the folds of her dress and there I find that sacred gateway into a world of wet warmth.

She sighs and in that moment her eyes shine with the golden flame of the sun and I could believe that this is nirvana and eternity encapsulated in no profane mockery of the truth, but is the truth of reality escaped from the lie of dreams and wantings.

But fuck it I don’t believe in fairy tales.

I’m gonna fuck her.  Rut her like all the others.

Try to fill my void and know that I’ll fling my angst far into the abyss only to extend it while thinning myself more and more.  Perhaps I’ll have to relieve to vanish completely one day and

“Stop.” She says.

-

“Huh?” I look at her and all the shiny golden feelings stop and suddenly the room is cold like a menace of what I thought it was.  This is strange.  I’ve experienced it before when someone wants to stop the action but this feels different.  It doesn’t feel like she’s pushing me away but rather pulling herself away.  Somehow this draws my attention more to the moment and the chattering voice in my head gets quieter.

“What’s wrong?” I ask her.

The joint smolders in the ashtray and its smoke curls up into the air between us as a thin strand of wispy white.  I lean in closer to her my hands out from between her thighs and resting gently on her knee now.

Why do I feel warmth now? Between us.In a different way than the heat of fucking.

She bites her lip and looks away.

Neither of us say anything for a moment and I see that her brow furrows slightly and I know she’s nervous.

“I like you.” She says quietly.

A little air out my nostrils and I smile as the warmth between us incites a golden blossom of frenzied anticipation to seed itself in my breast and I want to hold her tight and hold her close.

“I like you too.” I say while smiling.  I’m just so glad.  Not even worried or nervous and a vision that’s only a moment of illusory longing that’s been held onto for so long becomes a lifetime of love flashing behind my eyes.

She makes a sound as if she’s about to speak but stops suddenly.  I squeeze her knee a little and say gently, “it’s okay.”

“It’s just…I’m scared you know?”  She says, her voice comes slowly and quietly barely above a whisper.

Then she turns and stares deep into my eyes.

You know how some say the eyes are like windows into the soul?  That’s how I feel when she stares into my eyes.  Like she sees right down into all the hidden pockets inside me.  And her eyes seem to tell me so much about her.  I see fear there, sure.  But I see hope.  I see anger.  I see love.  I see hate.  I see sorrow.  Anguish.  Something sacred.  And I’m scared too.  Scared to have such naked desire in a moment.  A moment that feels familiar because I’ve felt vulnerable many times before.  And vulnerability can leave us weak.  It can leave us open to being brutally damaged through inaction, a lack of reciprocation, a lack of respect, a lack of togetherness.

“It’s okay,” I say again, “So am I.  I’m scared too.” 

-

Why is the prospect of Love so frightening to me?  Perhaps it’s simply cautiousness.  To have felt pain at the hands of one we have trusted and have desired so much that it was akin to addiction.  Perhaps it is more than cautiousness.  Perhaps I fear my own emotions.  Within the walls of my mind there rages a sea of chaos that is typhoons of blood that is desire for pain enlightened by both sadism and masochism at their furthest extremes.  The fury of being human and limited and the desire to be omnipotent by the stay of our bodies and to tear ourselves beyond ourselves and thus conquer the confines of our being.  That is the essence of our soul.  Light and dark, good and evil, joy and suffering, life and death.

Love just a part of the grand four seasons that is the turning of the Sun unto the Earth. 

We beg to it give us a wishful existence of frolicking golden light punctuated by crimson splatters and raucous silver glinting in the moonlight stained with the cackling smiles of the ravenous monsters of those nightmarish moments of hyper-reality.  Here is the subconscious expressed fully as it manifests its holiness into each individual life.

We are as a bundle of ideas.  The five senses are the starting point of potentiality that extends far into the reaches of our hidden worlds contained deep within our longings.

To fear ourselves is but a part of that.  To fear certain sensations and to have the sensation of fear.  That, in of itself, is but a part of the sacredness of Life.

So here is our story again.  The simple Love story of being high as fuck and staring deep into the mesmerizing spell of entrancement that is another’s held gaze.  For as we have come upon this place by a thread of sensation and lost understanding here is the knowledge that I am but an idea.  An idea that is a myriad of sensations that I categorize as thus.

Now we bloom into Want.

And our Want was the greatest sensation of all.

I am but a piece of the Whole.  She is just a piece of the Whole.  We are but pieces of the Whole.  And the Whole is Us.

So here we are.

-

I’ve been high as fuck since the day I was born.  Tripping on some psychedelic kick called life.  When you step back a little bit from what you think you know you’ll find that it’s very easy to get lost in everything.  To follow a singular line of thought into infinite loops of questioning and acceptance.  That the pools of time warp and wrap around themselves and something so illusory as memory and anticipation become only meaningful as but a momentary instilment of knowing. 

But none of that really matters with the power to say, “Yes, I feel this.”

That is faith.

To shrug off the questionings.  The fear.  The pain.  The want.  The knowing. 

To shrug off yourself.  Your lack of self.

It is not an absence of caring but rather an enhancement of it.  It is neither a dedication to a purpose nor the dismissal of purpose.

To believe in this moment as it is, that is Truth. 

And that Truth is truly Love.

For it is wholly accepting of the Self and the Other.

Despite the Want. Despite the Questions.  Despite the Sensations.

It may seem as a defeat.  As if it is giving in blindly to the whims of a tumultuous and uncaring universe.

But it is truly the opposite.

It is Strength in Perseverance.  It is Bravery in the Face of Fear.

So I put the joint down.  I brush away the junk I wanted so badly a few moments ago.  The hidden hatred I muffled down inside, the acts of sexual depravation and homicidal rage, the perpetual existential angst.  None of it matters in this moment.

In this moment my whole life is choking in my throat.

My whole life has and always will be this moment.

And this moment is defined as such.

I say to her, “I accept you as you are.”

-

We didn’t have sex that night.  Or the nights afterwards.  In the months that followed I went to rehab and got clean.  I began counseling and going to AA meetings and I found out a lot about myself.  We spoke to each other often after that.  She came and visited me as I was going through treatment.  She supported my efforts and we became very close. 

It took a long time for me to become stable.  A few years.  It wasn’t an easy process.  It was like learning a new skill.  To not turn to drugs whenever I felt something ugly welling up inside me.  To not lose myself every time I was discontent.  I had to say goodbye to everyone I was associated with in the drug world.  The temptations were too powerful and the risks were too strong.  It was not a life I wanted to be a part of anymore.

Life is not all happy.  It’s not all good.  But it’s not all misery.  It’s not all bad.

It’s both.

There is light and dark in all things.

Now I walk freely and breathe in with awe at the sheer beauty that surrounds me.  No, not always.  I get frustrated easily and feel as if I’ll spit acid in anger at the incompetence or annoying attitudes of others at times.  And sometimes the world seems too mundane and I find myself wondering if Death is more exciting and worthwhile than life.

It’s the little purposes that help me.  To thrust myself into activity and feel as if I’m improving gradually each day at something meaningful seems like a miracle.

And even relationships take practice.  Take growth and learning.

It took years for her to open up to me.

-

We’re sitting on the couch next to each other and she tells me she was raped by her father as a young child for as long as she could remember.  She didn’t have a mother and she didn’t get away from her father until she was much older.  She received years of counseling until she felt she was healed.  Her voice is steady as she speaks.  She then tells me that her father would do certain things to her and because of what he did she had developed certain fetishes.  That she could only be sexually satisfied in certain ways.  She tells me her counselor had helped her realize that many who suffer from sexual trauma experience this because it’s a way for them to come to terms with what had happened to them.  A way to make the bad good and accept themselves and what they had become used to.

I’ve had my own share of pains and sufferings.  But I don’t share them with her.  I feel I do not need to.  I feel as if I’ve overcome myself.

I know that her telling me all this is an act of Trust.

Some kind of sacred bond.  That to betray her after this would be to stab at her being with a flaming sword.

-

I loved her.  So dearly I loved her.  After the confusion and the hatred and everything I loved her beyond what I understood love to be.

Visions of paradise flashed through my mind.  Glowing neons of a tropical island bathed by the light of holy acquiescence to be in each other’s familial embrace that was the zenith of intimacy unbound by the latitudes of an adolescent understanding.

I was utterly enthralled.

I would start a family with her.  I would give her anything she wanted.  I would die for her.  I would sacrifice any joy so that she may never feel pain again.  I wanted to take the scum of her past and wash it away with nothing but playfulness and laughter.  So that she may spend the rest of her days smiling and frolicking in the green gold fields of Life.

-

Why do I get high?

Why do I stay high?

Well, it’s easier than suicide.  That requires emotional effort.  I’ve come close before.  Suicide requires conquering of the self.  Overcoming the fear of pain and going through with an act that will probably bring a moment of intense suffering.  And if you’re capable of doing that, well, you’re probably capable of absolving yourself from the anguish that led you to suicidal intentions in the first place.

Getting high is the easiest way to die. 

Or at least stay dead.  Inside yourself.  Rotted out shell of a person.  Functional, but corpse-like.

I stay high so I may never feel.  Yes, the hopes and the loves are astounding.  The best feelings I’ve ever felt.  But in the scope of the feeling, once defined beyond itself and taken into account with the precursors and the aftermaths of that feeling, then you can see really what it is.

It is neither good nor bad.

It’s an array of emotions.  That old cliché, a rollercoaster of emotions.

Up. Down. Up. Down. Up. Down.

Tiring.

Exhausting.

I’d rather sleep.  Stay numb.  Laugh at bullshit on TV. 

To feel such intense love for her and myself.  To pursue my life.  To stay sober and clean.  To feel it all.

What pain and anguish can we bring to ourselves to be as we were at birth.  Yearning for the knowledge of living and growing. 

She left me after a time.  After such a depth of connection.  For a long time I questioned it.  I was angry about it.  I thought oh how? Oh why?  After such love.  After everything I felt?  But see, that’s the thing.  I’m sure in her mind she’s justifiable.  Making the right decision.  For whatever reasons.  I can’t see them but for trying.  I am not her.  And I have the ultimate bias of being entirely me.  I don’t know what she’s felt or seen in her life and her mind and why she came to the conclusion she had to leave.  But I do know that

Pain.

Pain is real.  And sharp.  And hot.

And pain rips me to shreds inside.

And it’s better to rot slowly than to bleed and bleed and bleed.

So I take another hit.  I rail a line.

I mainline that shit direct-

I see her standing by the door.  She’s framed by the glaring neon lights dancing around her.  The deafening bass in the music booms right through me and feels like it’s shaking everything inside me.  It sounds like lasers and earthquakes and the whole room looks like the acid dream of some kind of sci-fi character.  The sweat of the crowd rises in steamy clouds all around but the odorous fumes of my fellow writhing humans can’t bother me now as I smile through at the garishly glowing red, green, purple, yellow, and blue lights.  All I want is to make contact with her.  Some kind of alien amidst the same-faced crowd.  A connection with her.  The prettiest face I can remember seeing.

So I push through the crowd.  Glancing off each person’s immediate personal-space bubble with a small hand gesture yelling, Scuse me, pardon me, comin’ through.Swimming through an endless sea of faces in a room that’s too small to contain the thronging violence of our sexual longings and social loneliness come as jerky and spastic motions we call dancing.  I’m smiling widely with all my teeth showing and my tongue sloshing back and forth in my mouth and the heat of the air is a taste that pushes its way through the roof of my mouth straight into my brain.

I feel everything.

I see everything.

And then there she is.  Right in front of me.  Enclosed on all sides by bodies similarly in motion. Lights bathing her as a darkly-lit kaleidoscope blossoming at the edge of my vision.  There’s an invisible wall around her that I breach with a swift motion and then I’m with her dancing directly in front of her.  Her eyes flick over me and settle on the area where my chest meets my neck and I feel a wave of heat pull me closer to her.  I have won.  I have succeeded already.  The bass booms.  The lights flash everywhere.  The crowd presses us close. 

We dance together.

-

It goes by different names.  They call it this or that and it comes as herbs, capsules, pills, powders, liquids, whatever.  Comes brown, white, pink, purple, green, red, every color you can think of.  You can swallow it, snort it, mix it, shoot it, smoke it, whatever. 

Sometimes it makes you feel high, sometimes low, sometimes stoned, sometimes blitzed, blazed, glazed, wasted, plastered, fucked up, like you’re rollin’, faded, on one, you know, gone.

Totally gone.

It’s different than being sober.  I can’t quite say how.  If I think really hard about it sometimes it’s like dreaming or being tired or being sick, but in a good way.  In the best way.  In the only way I ever want to be.

I don’t ever want to feel anything but good.

-

We stand outside sucking on cigarettes as the white wisps of smoke we exhale swirl up to meet the dull silver pinpoints of iridescently glowing starlight that are nestled between swathes of inky night sky.  She’s laughing at some stupid joke I made that I’ve already forgotten and then I look at her.  Deep into her eyes.

I see the whole night reflected there.

And everything’s pulsing.  The rhythm of the club still vibrates to the world outside and the air is shaking slightly in time to the beat of my heart that moves with my craven want and desire that cracks like in flame.  The feeling swills in my gut above my genitals and it’s like a knot of worms wriggling around and I just want to thrash at myself and scratch beneath the muscle and beneath the bone and I need her I need her more than anything more than anything.  Like a giant krill-like insect my lust squirms so violently I feel as if it’ll puncture out my pubic area and all everything I feel for her will spill as an unending waterfall from the heat and swollen pressure of my penis.

We kiss.

Explosions of red and gold.  Flowers and fireworks.  Endless crowds cheering. 

I am a King.

I am a God.

I am Love itself.

We embrace.

She is so warm.  Like a spot of sunlight leaking through a window.

She is so soft.  Like a bed after a long day.

Something in me sighs with a pleasure that is almost a pain.

And an abysmal fear seeds itself in that secret place deep inside me.

It whispers with the voice of the Eldest Demons

This will not last.

And I hold her tighter.

-

The first time I did it I realized it was the best feeling in the world.  Which is funny because I didn’t feel much at all.  And that’s the point don’t you see?  Why do you think people give up their entire life for it?  Why do you think people chase it with everything they’ve got?  Years and years of happiness.  Years and years of stability.  Years and years of normal family life and upstanding citizenship.  One little trigger.  One little crack in the window of perception of what you know to be yourself and boom.It’s all done.  Right then.

Then you get what?

All of it.

The ridiculous highs.  The crippling lows.

The puke in the toilet you almost drown in because you’ve been losing consciousness vomiting the past 6 hours.  The headache that’s like a jackhammer covered in spikes drilling straight into the center of your brain.  The collapsed veins and the shakes and the stomach that can’t hold anything but diarrhea about to splurt from your ass at any moment.  The uncertainty of any reality and the paranoia that everything’s going to collapse at any given moment and you’re just blistering in the moonlight because you’re fried.

That’s what it is.  You give up everything if you stay there too long.

It’s worth it sometimes.

Because the pain of staying can be too much.

I wonder how people do it.  Life is hard you know?

The effort comes effortlessly to some.

Is it religion? Faith?

Is it family? Love?

Is it work? Purpose?

Is it partying? Pleasure?

I’m not sure.

Whatever it is it’s not as ragged.  It’s not about to break like this is. 

-

We see the first spirals of sunlight creeping over the horizon sliding beneath the cold black-blue of the night sky.  A lighter tint washes over the world and I feel almost frantic.  Yes, she is with me, somehow I’ve led her this far out into the strange and uncertain chaos of the world beyond the party.  Beyond the warm cushion of what we know, a place to simply be.  So now what are we?

She shivers in her thin black dress.  I’m a nice guy I put my jacket around her and she smiles at me.  We get in my car and with a quick turn of the key the engine quietly purrs to life.  I plug in my smartphone and I turn on some chill tunes, a mix of funky beats going smooth and slow, I know the nights coming to a close.  The car is warm and comfortable and I hear her breathe in deeply and I look at her.  She sighs a little contented sigh while smiling a little as she nestles deeper into the pillowy cushion of her seat.  I look away quickly and pull away from the parking lot.

I can’t pay attention to her now.  Not really.  She tries to talk a little and sure I’ll acknowledge her with soft little sounds.  “Mmhm, oh, ok, ha ha, yeah.”  Are the only responses I’ll give right now.  She’s in the car already.  She’s going where I go.  As long as I treat her politely she’ll be with me all night.

My focus is elsewhere.

-

Comedowns are the worst.  With anything.  You get hangovers and it’s like you’re going to die.  If you’ve been speedin’ all night you just feel fucking wrecked.  Your body’s totally burnt out and all you wanna do is maintain and maintain.  Even if you were to have sex with your most desirable partner during a comedown you’d feel just like plastic rubbing against plastic.  Totally dried up inside.  Like you wanna die.  Sure the smart thing to do would be to get clean.  Eat a healthy meal and hydrate and get back to homeostasis.  Get back to how the normal folk live.  But that’s not what you want see?  What you want is to maintain because you don’t want to go back.  Go back to dealing with things.  Just leave the old bandaid on let it rot on the wound if you have to but don’t ever rip it off.

Because then your blood would spill out into open air.  

-

My heart rate is up.  My eyes dart back and forth across the road.  I texted my guy before we even got to the car, I’m not gonna risk texting or calling while driving.  I know a lot of people go crazy when they’re holding.  Not me.  I lay low.  I drive right at the speed-limit.  I let people pass me.  I use all my turn signals.  I keep my gun in the door right next to me.  I’m real careful.

Fuck getting pulled over.  Fuck dealing with police.

Fuck getting road ragers hassling me.  Fuck all that.

I just wanna get what I need.

My dude looks out for me.  He knows me.  He knows I’m cool.

I’ve hooked him up with a lot of people.  I’ve made him a lot of money.

I don’t ask for much.

Just punctuality.

He keeps his phone open for me.  He knows I go out a lot.

It’s part of my appeal.  It’s how I meet people.

I don’t ask for much.  I don’t ask for good deals or anything although he does cut me a better price than most because he knows I’m loyal and an asset.

And we’re pretty cool.

We even hang out when I pick up sometimes.  Talk about business, about philosophy, about people, whatever.

I used to sling when I was starting up.  Not anymore though.  The cash is quick but there’s too much risk.  And it’s uncertain.  And I don’t trust people.

I keep my distance from all his other hookups.  Even people I set him up with once I do I generally avoid them.  I just wanna get what’s mine.  When he’s got other guests I just grab my shit and bounce.  I’ve dealt with too many snitches and wackos before.  It’s easier this way. Less risk.

But I gotta stay up.

The floaty feeling in my chest is starting to fade.  Everything’s starting to come back blurry-sharp without the neon staticy haze to cushion me against the world.  I’m starting to panic at the thought that I’ll have to deal with being me again.  Instead of simply being.

FuCK.  I can’t hack it man.

She’s still talking.  Still saying some shit.  I smile and murmur responses but inside I’m starting to become boiling magma.  I could scream and kick her in the face.  Smash her head right out the window SHUT THE FUCK UP YOU STUPID BITCH.

FUCK.

And inside I become saltwater weeping down from the heavens.  I’ve been dying inside for the longest time and the only thing holding me up is the promise of the gods’ sacred nectar.  I need rivers of ecstatic feeling to slip through my veins.  I need golden light shining darkly behind my eyes.  I need it all.  I need. I need.

-

What’s worse than a comedown though is being completely dry.  Having nothing at all and no way to get anything.  That’s when the desperation hits.  That’s when you see people stand at corners and lift shit from stores and packin’ guns to hold up anyone.  That’s when you see people starving and digging through ashtrays just trying to get any kind of buzz. 

-

Nothing is magic in this world when you’re sober.  You can go to the moon and back and still rather sit in a closet doing some good dope. 

See because it goes direct to the brain.  All the pleasure vibes.  It’s not sensual.  It’s not from stimulation.

It’s fucking direct.

And it’s evasive.  The pain of simply being becomes the glory of simply being.  We don’t have to think about our isolation anymore.  The existential crush and anxiety of Oh god I am human and what the fuck?

It just IS.

And that’s why I’m here again.  Like I always am.  The girl is down.  I always make sure they’re cool before I pick them up.  Of course I need a girl.  Why the fuck am I needing?  Why the fuck am I picking up?

Numb Numb Numb and then validate and then stimulate for pleasure for an absence of pain.

That’s all it is.

And isn’t it glorious that that’s all it is?

It’s nothing so overly complex what I’m doing.

I’m pressing a button.  As many times as I can press.

Here I am now.  I go up to the door while she waits in the car. I’ll share a little with her.  Enough to get her going and make her feel like I’m generous.  But only a little.  This shit’s mine.

 “What’s good homie.” We clasp hands.  I see that he’s got company so I pull out the bills.  The transactions quick.  He knows what I want.  He used to tell me like oh I’ve got some new shit or oh I’m hooking you up special with the good stuff.  I’ve been with him for long enough.  I’ve netted him more hookups than anyone.  I’m essentially a ghost partner.  He knows I could get my own thing going but out of mutual respect for our attitudes I stay out of his shit and he stays out of mine.  He takes this kind of risk and I take on the role of consumer.  He knows I’m not about the money.  He only uses socially.  Rarely.  I’m social to get to using.  He knows the game and he knows I know it.  He knows most his network only survives because of me.  I’ve made him a lot of money but that’s ok.  I don’t mind giving him the hookups.  In the end he’s the one who would go down.  He’s the one that’s gotta go through and hook it up and deal with the fiends and the business bullshit.  I work an easy but steady job at a nearby store.  Yeah I gotta deal with some bullshit there but it’s easy.  There’s much less at stake.  And what’s at stake?

Everything.

If you get caught up you’re trapped.  Literally in a cell.

And I’m already trapped in this body.

The only way to get free is to get gone.  And yeah I know you can get in prison.  But you’re in fucking prison.  That’s limiting, obviously.

Looks like he’s hooked me up with some good shit.  He always does.  But I remind myself of it every day when I see him.  Of course I have a shitty car and a tiny flat.  Of course I have no fat or muscle almost.  Of course.

My diet is mainly this shit.  I eat when I feel like I’ll pass out.

I don’t really care about surviving.  Death is probably the ultimate freedom.  The ultimate cure. 

Like sex.

Like getting gone.

But permanent.

Permanently nothing.

Permanent zero.

-

Doing too much is hard to explain.  On one hand it’s dangerous because you’re fucked up and may never come back and you’re at high risk to do something stupid and get caught up with danger and with police.  On the other hand….

Isn’t that the point in getting fucked up?

To go beyond the limits of yourself?

-

I’v been so fucked up for so long now.  I’m forgetting myself again as we hurl down the highway at 90 miles per hour.

What happened to being careful and cautious?

Especially now that I’m holding.

She doesn’t care. 

I’ve switched up the music and I’m playing some rock music.

I’m so desperate just to get home.  Get to the safe zone.

Where I can lose myself.  Have a brief respite.

Yeah I know it’s nothing. It’s void.  It’s only the briefest of hours in the neverending orbit of the Earth but goddammit let me breathe for one fucking moment in transcendant nirvana.

She’s laughing a bit.  We’re having fun.  I wonder if she knows how desperate I am inside.  How I’m just thinking about getting the buzz going again.

I always feel a little twinge of guilt when I pick up.  Like maybe I should stop.  Like maybe there’s other, better things to pursue in this life.  Things like love, grandeur, spirituality, charity, family, you know, success.  But what’s my motivation?  Recognition?  Someone to pat me on the back and say, “Oh hey, great job in this life.  You’ve done well.  Thank you for your accomplishments and your active participation.”  Well, maybe that’s what I’m supposed to want.  I just can’t really get worked up about that kind of stuff because, at the end of the moment, when I’m quietly suspended in a space between spaces, all I want is respite.  I suppose that says something about the regular and every day of the moments we call reality.  We call entertainment escapes from reality.  Isn’t that funny?  Shouldn’t entertainment be thought of as supplemental of reality?  Like, it’s an additional pleasure.  But no, we call a good book or a movie or a song a little escape from reality.  Something to enjoy.  Take us out of ourselves.  Well what does that say of life in general?  Of the daily structure of how we live and survive?  Why do we crave escapes?  Even quiet moments being with a loved one after a long, hectic, chaotic day.  Even those quiet moments we see as escaping from what we have to deal with.  I suppose that’s unfair.  That we as vulnerable and unknowing creatures thrust so unwittingly into life have to deal with suffering, oppression, tyranny, discomfort, and all the other terrible things in life.  It’s so unfair because it should be that the terrible moments are the moments of unreality.  Escape implies leaving a terrible thing.  Escaping from reality implies that our natural lot in life is that life is suffering.  It’s unfair.  It should be that we occasionally and accidentally stumble into a bad moment.  That reality is not something to escape from but enjoy.  To sit back and savor our lifetime and occasionally have to deal with some small unpleasantry.  Reality shouldn’t be something to escape from but rather a bad moment should be something to escape from.  But this has become what we understand to be general reality.  It’s shit.  Utter fucking shit.  And all I do is seek respite.

So I gotta get high.  Don’t you see?  If I don’t I’ll be trapped here forever.

We’re almost there.  I’ve slowed down a little.  I’ve come to my senses.  I can’t be speeding or I’ll get pulled over.  The cops like to set up little speed traps all along here.  Exits coming up.

Ok, turn now.

-

I didn’t know anything about drugs growing up.  I didn’t grow up in particularly bad neighborhoods.  Although maybe I was just too young to remember how bad they were.  I know as a kid I lived in a trailer park at one point.  But drugs weren’t something I was really around.  My parents were lower middle class for most of my childhood years, but we were never poor.  We didn’t have a lot of money but we always had food on the table.  And I had toys.  And I could play outside and do, you know, normal kid things. 

I wonder when it started.  This awareness that there were ways to circumvent reality.  That there were ways to numb, enhance, escape, sensationalize, and add to a moment.  The moment could be good, bad, sad, full of rage, full of hate, full of joy, whatever, but you could add a completely new axis in the dimensions of feeling.  I mean feeling as in physical, emotional, mental, even spiritual.

I remember feeling so sad.  So sad.  I wasn’t a teenager yet but I was close.  I remember arguing with my mother.  I remember feeling such hate.  I remember feeling hated.  Wanting to die.  Crying until I felt dead inside.  Completely dried out.  Shaking like my breastbone would shatter.  Like the whole world was melting and there was nothing but searing heat at my temples burning like hot iron and I couldn’t breathe my lungs just being squeezed by anger and sorrow.  I remember something about that never went away.  Those little and large grievances and betrayals leave cracks in our perception of reality.  Cracks in our lie of life.

I’m sure it all depends on your perspective.  Not everyone sees pleasure as an escape, I’m sure many see it as part of life, even the norm.  I do not.

I’m not asking for pity.  I know many have struggled, more severely than I have.  I know, compared to many in the world, I’ve lived in luxury.

But to say that I feel good about myself, my story, and my life.

Well I just can’t lie to myself or to anyone like that.

Why do you think I’m here now?

My hand almost shaking.

Yeah I’m gonna fuck this bitch.  Because my cock needs it.  Because I need to feel my body buck against someone’s and for a moment I can feel like someone wants me and that love is real and that life is not pain even if the fuck is empty like it always is and I can’t feel myself come back out.  I can’t feel the love I want.  Those romance stories the movies, books, and cartoons promised.  Just a simpering and putrid lie and each time it’s a crippling disappointment.

My hand almost shaking.

Enhance myself.  Forget myself.

Why do you think I’m here now?

We pull into the driveway.

My hand almost shaking.

This is why I need drugs.  This is why I need drugs. This is why I need drugs.

This is why I need.

Drugs.

-

So now we pull into the driveway and the headlights bounce back the white glare of garishly bright white paint.  We get out of the car and she stumbles a bit on the unfamiliar steps the booze in her system has made her less careful.

Then we’re inside and she sees how I live.  The little clues I leave around that speak of what’s inside myself. 

I’ve cleaned up but I’ve left a jacket strewn across the couch.  I have a cheap painting hanging on the wall next to it.  I have a small bookshelf and a not-too-expensive laptop.  I don’t have a TV.  I have a dining table just big enough to sit two but only one chair for it.

I don’t want anyone around for long.

They make life too real. 

Each person is a bundle of possibilities and potentials.  What you see indicates the probability of them being a certain way.  That’s why we judge people based on race, height, weight, speech, what they look at, what they smell like, what they wear, the places they go.  No, these by-the-cover judgements are fallible but as far as appearances go they speak of a likeliness towards our understanding of how things work.

We clutch at the thread of logic that slowly unravels in a web of chaotic impossibilities.  We follow a line of meager meanings to vainly hold onto some idea that what we believe to be true can truly be true. 

And not just a hollowed out puppet show.

Full of void and dust and nothing and but shells that are painted caricatures of personality crashing against each other in a façade of reality that could collapse in on itself at any moment.

I’ve done this many times before.

And she seems to know the dance.

We’ll maybe kiss a bit. Sloppy/passionate/lusty.

Grope at each other.

Fuck. Rut. Hump. Horizontal groove.

Sex.

Then we’ll sleep a little while until we wake and I’ll make up some excuse of having to go somewhere and drop her off wherever is convenient.

We step through the front door of the house and I turn on a light.  Everything is dimly lit in the bare bulb and it feels good to be inside.  She leaves her bag by the door and follows me to the bedroom.  Sometimes they’re desperate.  Barely through the door and clothes are coming off and jumping on me, but luckily she’s not like that.  I go over to the table and get the stuff out of my pocket.  I roll up a joint and I break up some of the powder with my driver’s license.  I roll up a dollar bill and dome a quick line, then I spark the joint.  I offer it to her and she takes a little hit.  As the smoke plumes around I feel like I’m seeing her for the very first time.  Feels like static waves of violet longing are crashing around my sensation and I feel the hollowness of my being pulse wildly inside.  God she’s gorgeous.  It seems fake.  This moment.  Like some kind of fevered caricature of the lust for love that I’ve been holding inside for so long.  The love that could somehow match the existential self-hatred that is the void of my gut yearning for relief.  Some kind of magnetism to draw us towards each other and not mind that we’re on a rock hurtling through space spinning endlessly in a vacuum of darkness punctuated by tiny pinpoints of light so coldly far away from each other. 

I want her so.

But I know the want is empty.  For what I so crave is not just her touch.  It is not just to empty my seed into her womb.  Or even to coo sweet soft nothings of affection.  Not even a life together and a child together can quench my longing for her that is a chaos and raving sea of discontented and jagged black lightning cutting through my world of darkness to here.  No, what I so want is not even her.

It is the sacred embrace.

That I can only see through the portal of a visage.  To have an eye gaze so steadily back into mine own and to know that we are both nothing and everything and yes that only what we have known in our lifetimes has come unto this very moment that is a pinnacle of our experience.

But that is an impossibility is it not?

To be so knowing with someone.  To be inside and outside theirs and for them to be yours.  And to know that in a lifetime that is a diseased chimera of experience washing out the colors of a dreamworld that you and they are real.  Truly real and knowing of yourself and them.  That you are worth everything to them.  That they would give up everything for you.  That your presence is holy to them as they are to you.

That they love you as you love them.

That you have found the illusory and ever-present myth, the one.

And I stare at her.  The smoke dancing around her head.  And I wonder if this moment is but one in infinite and perhaps this moment speaks towards my malcontent dissatisfaction in of itself.  I wonder perhaps if there is no such thing as The One that all those cheesy romance novels and movies and holidays have insidiously pressed me into believing.  Perhaps just to watch her silently thrive in a cloud of marijuana smoke in this moment is the greatest gift of all.  To watch the light gleam off her dully glowing skin and admire the small details about her that you could never notice unless you just sit quietly with her and focus entirely on her.  Perhaps that is the meaning of love?

And I know I am lying to myself right now.

I know I’m weeping incessantly in my heart.  And her beauty makes it all the more painful.  To watch her as a work of art and admire her in this way it tears at me more so.  The craving.  The desire to thrust all my worries, fears, joys, longings, everything at her and receive unconditional support and reciprocation and poetic interaction.

To be in a world between worlds, a shining oasis of heaven upon earth, in every moment and eternal sigh in no moment only with the one I so love.

And to know that I am too jaded and cynical.  Too visceral and too hateful and too distrusting.

I could never allow them to be close like that.  Never open again.  Then I would be too raw.  And I’ll just bleed through the fragile veiny walls of my heart all over the floor and my very life will be coughed out as I gag and choke upon betrayal upon resentment upon hidden discontent.

No.

We cannot ever breach the walls of intimacy by our own hand again.

Except with getting fucked up.  Buzzed.  Wasted. Faded. Stoned. High. High. High.

So high.

That is true intimacy.

Pleasure in the most hedonistic sense.  That’s all love is right?  We’re just getting things from each other.  Things to ignite our sense of justice or feelings of general goodness or even a kind of erotic and carnal satiation.

For we thirst to thrive in this life.  And to thrive is to feel and to avoid lack of feeling or bad feeling.

And that is my boon with myself.  I am the love affair.  I am the so-called One.

And I will not, never, give myself to another like that again.

To make myself dependent as a suckling pup shakily nursing itself upon its mother’s teat as she’s slaughtered by the wolf that then, without hesitation, devours the pup that comprehends naught the danger that its very birth has preordained it to.  The danger of pain unbound by any false pretense of mercy or the lie of justice.  No, even emotions can be preyed upon.  Even the mind and the soul and the body can be besieged by predators that will tear them apart without hesitation for that is simply their function and their sole purpose of existence.  For sadism is a marred and devious creature that will leer out from the depths of beauty and partake in the flesh of vulnerability.  And why?  Simply because what pains you can pleasure another.  And pleasure is the goal.  Feeling good is the goal.

I want to feel good.

The dollar bill skates along the table as I reach down with my nostril and suck up another line of lumpy white powder.  An icy velvet sting coats my sinuses and my eye waters slightly.  I snort a couple times to get it in the back of my throat as far as possible.  I take the joint from her and take a deep long hit from it, the acrid smoke tickling my lungs and throat almost making me cough. 

Now I’m amped and blazed at the same time.

And this is what it’s fucking about see? 

Everything’s slated a kind of flat feel.  Kind of a flat edge to everything.  I’m out of myself already. 

And what a relief it is.  To feel gone.  Faded out.

Not so close to the template of humanity and human wants and needs and disappointments that I have twisted into becoming.

What relief.

-

I’m so high right now.

It’s like…

When you’re asleep.  And you’ve been asleep so long that you forget you’re dreaming.  And you just float from world to world.  I can finally forget I’m living and float through the world.

And I float to her smile that slides through the front of my face and nestles right behind my eyes between my thoughts and the physical realm so that all I can see and all I can think of is

“You’re…beautiful…

-hits spliff and while exhaling-

…you know?”  voice comes out thick and milked from heat.

Oh god I want to press myself into her.  Be unborn by my own affection in a moment.  To become mechanized with the pistons and the revolutions of the earth’s rotations reflected in the profane parody that is the mockery of my own rotary movement as my hips weave up and down by a tidal push and pull into her and almost out of her thrust and thrusting as far as we could go but hoping to throw our soul beyond where our bodies end and clutch onto that sensation of togetherness and being wanted for but a moment but

Flat.

Do another line.

Cuts into my sinuses.

The light in the room is really too bright.  Or maybe my eyes are just blurred with intoxication at this point.  A reflection of the fuzzy feeling blooming from the center of my mind.

Now.

Do it now.

She stares sleepily at me through half-opened eyes.

A sexy romantic groove whispers out the speaker’s (when did we turn on music?)

I lean in close and she gravitates towards me.

And the moment is a leap forward through nothingness that is a void of thought and trepidation and then we are embraced in a kiss.

Open mouth. Close mouth. Open mouth. Close mouth.

Slimy. Wet. Sliding. Wet.

Similar rhythm as sex.

The same parody that sex is to life kissing is a parody of sex and life.

And here we do not eat to survive but mock eating another’s face to live.

My face is a shining mask of sensation at this point tingling with biting electricity that feels like dark hues royal purple and light shades of electric blue purple and we breathe harder and faster as I grab her roughly and pull her closer to me.  We’re starting to heave and grate our bodies against each other’s and push away the air around us as we enter into a state of breathlessness that we try to sustain ourselves only with the taking in of the other’s fumes and flickers.

My fingers creep up her dripping thigh into the folds of her dress and there I find that sacred gateway into a world of wet warmth.

She sighs and in that moment her eyes shine with the golden flame of the sun and I could believe that this is nirvana and eternity encapsulated in no profane mockery of the truth, but is the truth of reality escaped from the lie of dreams and wantings.

But fuck it I don’t believe in fairy tales.

I’m gonna fuck her.  Rut her like all the others.

Try to fill my void and know that I’ll fling my angst far into the abyss only to extend it while thinning myself more and more.  Perhaps I’ll have to relieve to vanish completely one day and

“Stop.” She says.

-

“Huh?” I look at her and all the shiny golden feelings stop and suddenly the room is cold like a menace of what I thought it was.  This is strange.  I’ve experienced it before when someone wants to stop the action but this feels different.  It doesn’t feel like she’s pushing me away but rather pulling herself away.  Somehow this draws my attention more to the moment and the chattering voice in my head gets quieter.

“What’s wrong?” I ask her.

The joint smolders in the ashtray and its smoke curls up into the air between us as a thin strand of wispy white.  I lean in closer to her my hands out from between her thighs and resting gently on her knee now.

Why do I feel warmth now? Between us.In a different way than the heat of fucking.

She bites her lip and looks away.

Neither of us say anything for a moment and I see that her brow furrows slightly and I know she’s nervous.

“I like you.” She says quietly.

A little air out my nostrils and I smile as the warmth between us incites a golden blossom of frenzied anticipation to seed itself in my breast and I want to hold her tight and hold her close.

“I like you too.” I say while smiling.  I’m just so glad.  Not even worried or nervous and a vision that’s only a moment of illusory longing that’s been held onto for so long becomes a lifetime of love flashing behind my eyes.

She makes a sound as if she’s about to speak but stops suddenly.  I squeeze her knee a little and say gently, “it’s okay.”

“It’s just…I’m scared you know?”  She says, her voice comes slowly and quietly barely above a whisper.

Then she turns and stares deep into my eyes.

You know how some say the eyes are like windows into the soul?  That’s how I feel when she stares into my eyes.  Like she sees right down into all the hidden pockets inside me.  And her eyes seem to tell me so much about her.  I see fear there, sure.  But I see hope.  I see anger.  I see love.  I see hate.  I see sorrow.  Anguish.  Something sacred.  And I’m scared too.  Scared to have such naked desire in a moment.  A moment that feels familiar because I’ve felt vulnerable many times before.  And vulnerability can leave us weak.  It can leave us open to being brutally damaged through inaction, a lack of reciprocation, a lack of respect, a lack of togetherness.

“It’s okay,” I say again, “So am I.  I’m scared too.” 

-

Why is the prospect of Love so frightening to me?  Perhaps it’s simply cautiousness.  To have felt pain at the hands of one we have trusted and have desired so much that it was akin to addiction.  Perhaps it is more than cautiousness.  Perhaps I fear my own emotions.  Within the walls of my mind there rages a sea of chaos that is typhoons of blood that is desire for pain enlightened by both sadism and masochism at their furthest extremes.  The fury of being human and limited and the desire to be omnipotent by the stay of our bodies and to tear ourselves beyond ourselves and thus conquer the confines of our being.  That is the essence of our soul.  Light and dark, good and evil, joy and suffering, life and death.

Love just a part of the grand four seasons that is the turning of the Sun unto the Earth. 

We beg to it give us a wishful existence of frolicking golden light punctuated by crimson splatters and raucous silver glinting in the moonlight stained with the cackling smiles of the ravenous monsters of those nightmarish moments of hyper-reality.  Here is the subconscious expressed fully as it manifests its holiness into each individual life.

We are as a bundle of ideas.  The five senses are the starting point of potentiality that extends far into the reaches of our hidden worlds contained deep within our longings.

To fear ourselves is but a part of that.  To fear certain sensations and to have the sensation of fear.  That, in of itself, is but a part of the sacredness of Life.

So here is our story again.  The simple Love story of being high as fuck and staring deep into the mesmerizing spell of entrancement that is another’s held gaze.  For as we have come upon this place by a thread of sensation and lost understanding here is the knowledge that I am but an idea.  An idea that is a myriad of sensations that I categorize as thus.

Now we bloom into Want.

And our Want was the greatest sensation of all.

I am but a piece of the Whole.  She is just a piece of the Whole.  We are but pieces of the Whole.  And the Whole is Us.

So here we are.

-

I’ve been high as fuck since the day I was born.  Tripping on some psychedelic kick called life.  When you step back a little bit from what you think you know you’ll find that it’s very easy to get lost in everything.  To follow a singular line of thought into infinite loops of questioning and acceptance.  That the pools of time warp and wrap around themselves and something so illusory as memory and anticipation become only meaningful as but a momentary instilment of knowing. 

But none of that really matters with the power to say, “Yes, I feel this.”

That is faith.

To shrug off the questionings.  The fear.  The pain.  The want.  The knowing. 

To shrug off yourself.  Your lack of self.

It is not an absence of caring but rather an enhancement of it.  It is neither a dedication to a purpose nor the dismissal of purpose.

To believe in this moment as it is, that is Truth. 

And that Truth is truly Love.

For it is wholly accepting of the Self and the Other.

Despite the Want. Despite the Questions.  Despite the Sensations.

It may seem as a defeat.  As if it is giving in blindly to the whims of a tumultuous and uncaring universe.

But it is truly the opposite.

It is Strength in Perseverance.  It is Bravery in the Face of Fear.

So I put the joint down.  I brush away the junk I wanted so badly a few moments ago.  The hidden hatred I muffled down inside, the acts of sexual depravation and homicidal rage, the perpetual existential angst.  None of it matters in this moment.

In this moment my whole life is choking in my throat.

My whole life has and always will be this moment.

And this moment is defined as such.

I say to her, “I accept you as you are.”

-

We didn’t have sex that night.  Or the nights afterwards.  In the months that followed I went to rehab and got clean.  I began counseling and going to AA meetings and I found out a lot about myself.  We spoke to each other often after that.  She came and visited me as I was going through treatment.  She supported my efforts and we became very close. 

It took a long time for me to become stable.  A few years.  It wasn’t an easy process.  It was like learning a new skill.  To not turn to drugs whenever I felt something ugly welling up inside me.  To not lose myself every time I was discontent.  I had to say goodbye to everyone I was associated with in the drug world.  The temptations were too powerful and the risks were too strong.  It was not a life I wanted to be a part of anymore.

Life is not all happy.  It’s not all good.  But it’s not all misery.  It’s not all bad.

It’s both.

There is light and dark in all things.

Now I walk freely and breathe in with awe at the sheer beauty that surrounds me.  No, not always.  I get frustrated easily and feel as if I’ll spit acid in anger at the incompetence or annoying attitudes of others at times.  And sometimes the world seems too mundane and I find myself wondering if Death is more exciting and worthwhile than life.

It’s the little purposes that help me.  To thrust myself into activity and feel as if I’m improving gradually each day at something meaningful seems like a miracle.

And even relationships take practice.  Take growth and learning.

It took years for her to open up to me.

-

We’re sitting on the couch next to each other and she tells me she was raped by her father as a young child for as long as she could remember.  She didn’t have a mother and she didn’t get away from her father until she was much older.  She received years of counseling until she felt she was healed.  Her voice is steady as she speaks.  She then tells me that her father would do certain things to her and because of what he did she had developed certain fetishes.  That she could only be sexually satisfied in certain ways.  She tells me her counselor had helped her realize that many who suffer from sexual trauma experience this because it’s a way for them to come to terms with what had happened to them.  A way to make the bad good and accept themselves and what they had become used to.

I’ve had my own share of pains and sufferings.  But I don’t share them with her.  I feel I do not need to.  I feel as if I’ve overcome myself.

I know that her telling me all this is an act of Trust.

Some kind of sacred bond.  That to betray her after this would be to stab at her being with a flaming sword.

-

I loved her.  So dearly I loved her.  After the confusion and the hatred and everything I loved her beyond what I understood love to be.

Visions of paradise flashed through my mind.  Glowing neons of a tropical island bathed by the light of holy acquiescence to be in each other’s familial embrace that was the zenith of intimacy unbound by the latitudes of an adolescent understanding.

I was utterly enthralled.

I would start a family with her.  I would give her anything she wanted.  I would die for her.  I would sacrifice any joy so that she may never feel pain again.  I wanted to take the scum of her past and wash it away with nothing but playfulness and laughter.  So that she may spend the rest of her days smiling and frolicking in the green gold fields of Life.

-

Why do I get high?

Why do I stay high?

Well, it’s easier than suicide.  That requires emotional effort.  I’ve come close before.  Suicide requires conquering of the self.  Overcoming the fear of pain and going through with an act that will probably bring a moment of intense suffering.  And if you’re capable of doing that, well, you’re probably capable of absolving yourself from the anguish that led you to suicidal intentions in the first place.

Getting high is the easiest way to die. 

Or at least stay dead.  Inside yourself.  Rotted out shell of a person.  Functional, but corpse-like.

I stay high so I may never feel.  Yes, the hopes and the loves are astounding.  The best feelings I’ve ever felt.  But in the scope of the feeling, once defined beyond itself and taken into account with the precursors and the aftermaths of that feeling, then you can see really what it is.

It is neither good nor bad.

It’s an array of emotions.  That old cliché, a rollercoaster of emotions.

Up. Down. Up. Down. Up. Down.

Tiring.

Exhausting.

I’d rather sleep.  Stay numb.  Laugh at bullshit on TV. 

To feel such intense love for her and myself.  To pursue my life.  To stay sober and clean.  To feel it all.

What pain and anguish can we bring to ourselves to be as we were at birth.  Yearning for the knowledge of living and growing. 

She left me after a time.  After such a depth of connection.  For a long time I questioned it.  I was angry about it.  I thought oh how? Oh why?  After such love.  After everything I felt?  But see, that’s the thing.  I’m sure in her mind she’s justifiable.  Making the right decision.  For whatever reasons.  I can’t see them but for trying.  I am not her.  And I have the ultimate bias of being entirely me.  I don’t know what she’s felt or seen in her life and her mind and why she came to the conclusion she had to leave.  But I do know that

Pain.

Pain is real.  And sharp.  And hot.

And pain rips me to shreds inside.

And it’s better to rot slowly than to bleed and bleed and bleed.

So I take another hit.  I rail a line.

I mainline that shit direct-

Bang-

Hits.

And I’m so high.

And I’ll stay high.

Gone.

Gone.

Gone.

Bang-

Hits.

And I’m so high.

And I’ll stay high.

Gone.

Gone.

Gone.


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