The last line I remember doing was probably at 2am last Friday night with a bunch of my homemen and women. So this is my 30+ hours of being wired.
But why would people do this to their bodies willingly day in and day out?
What causes one to become so dependent, a junkie?
It's probably to fill a void? More often than not it is to escape reality because we're cowards, we're bored and maybe even a little insane.
If you wanted, you could write a book out of my life so far. Maybe reverse Sylvia Plath of the modern day, post de-humanisation period. Wouldn't that make an interesting read?
Except with horrendously generic rhyming words instead of real poetry, real art.
So much adventure, definitely kinkier than Fifty Shades, (shoutout to exboy A for this, yea I know you'll read this) enough to break down even the severest of the conservatives.
I live for a few things, like an animal. We are not much different from the others. Our needs are very basic- food, shelter, sex. We literally have nothing to worry about except to nurture our body and mate. Money is important, yes. But there will never be an end to that dream, it's a blackhole. We need to connect with each other and live with our universe, not modify it to suit our needs.
Anyway, the drugs make me digress, I feel my body scream in pain at the mindfuck that I have been undergoing. I'm rapidly falling down the rabbit hole and I doubt there's a way back up from this thing.
At some point in life, there will come a make or break stage. If you're the manic-depressive, high intelligence type, this basically means that at some point, you will break. Only two things can happen from there. You could either stay inside the boundary and play safe all your life or completely drop your sense of self and start over again.
Now I'm what you would call a junkie. My addiction doesn't always have to negative, it could be something like yoga or reading. I need that constant rush of adrenaline in varying doses. A safe life is not for me. There mere thought of it depresses me. So much that I would rather live a b-grade life in a b-grade city and go about my daily misadventures than whore myself for normalcy, like I really belong.
But the problem with being left of centre is the severe sense of alienation forever looming around you. It makes you want to kill yourself. You're too much of a coward so you choose something less lethal like party favours and maybe the drug of choice of the bourgeoisie: acid. In your head you have two lists: do, don't do. Needless to say, manure like drugs you would never do. Some you would try once/ multiple times. It's all about remembering that none of it is real, it's all so you can maybe enhance a sense or two, feel a few funny feelings but never to alter your sense of reality for extensive periods of time. That is dangerous territory right there.
Somehow, these self-made substance abuse commandments that I have developed over the years sound rather loony when I put words to the idea and think out loud. But hey, I need my safety cable in case anything goes wrong, one can't joke about stuff like that.
Substance abuse, for me, has always been easier to control because the addiction concerned is a material object, right there in front of your eyes. You can see, touch, taste it and something about large quantities, the mere visual, scares you more than it excites you. A whip is cracked, you tumble back to your senses. It's hard, but with time you learn to control your impulses. "Don't give in to the ID", or something like that according my 11th grade psychology textbook.
What happens, though, when your addiction is more deep rooted, perhaps physical or worse, emotional?
I get addicted to people, I get addicted to their ways, their habits. But my obsession goes away just as quickly as it comes. It's not even about sex anymore, or atleast the physical bit of it.
I crave for orgasms, intimacy and I've said this so many times before that I'm now starting to bore myself.
At 23, I'm stuck at being in the middle of teenage delinquency and sappy adulthood. It's all fun and games to be a part of both clubs till you realise that you don't really belong to either. You're an orphan without a home.
Some people are kind to you, so you love them and constantly want their validation. But there aren't too many people out there who're willing to make space in their hearts for you. The world is a cruel place, a cruel cruel place.
Whatever designer shit went up my nostrils has made me shaky and cranky.
So I pick up the guitar, write and play.
Write and play.
Just write and play.
My back hurts from the heaviness but I'd rather feel physical pain than the quintessential sinking feeling in my stomach.
I can hear a song by The National playing in my head, I think this is probably what insanity really is. Drug-induced insanity.
The whole bad behaviour stereotype we associate with musicians is sort of true. There's nothing cool about the sex-drugs-rockandroll lifestyle of ours. It's all just a facade. But you only realise that when you've stepped into the quicksand and there's no way you can take a couple of steps back. What do you do then, stay in bed and cry? But for how long? After a point you'll try to shake it off, fix your face and go out for the night looking for cheap thrills.
I would rather snort shit through my nose than let some random average mediocre man stick their genitalia in me. Atleast I don't have to fake orgasms that way and pretend like I had a good time, while secretly wishing that he finishes quick and just leaves you the fuck alone.
Boytoys are a thrill only in erotica. In real life men come with a lot more baggage than you'd think. They want me to blow their minds. They want their thrill, like it's on me to make sure they have a good time.
Everybody is forever looking for a thrill.
I'm looking for mine.
Constantly.
Once a junkie, always a junkie.
