From the way they crawl on me, I imagine that the roaches must be masochistic and wish for a swift death at my hand. Or maybe it is their life-long dream to soar through the air, like birds. Do they dream the same as we dream, begging the gods for aviation, for freedom? Why have wings if you can’t use them? I mused over this as I curled into a cheap, musky bed in a cheaper, muskier motel. If you didn’t spend all that money on the coke, you would be able to stay somewhere that didn’t reek of trucker and prostitute, I thought.
But if I didn’t spend all that money on the coke…I can’t finish the line of logic. My drug-addicted mind can’t fathom what it would be like without that high, that joy, the only thing to ever make me feel whole. My mind only addles on in between binges, but when I shoot that nectar in my arm, I become aware. Everything clears, and I view the purpose that God has for me. Actualization is fleeting, however. It doesn’t take long now before I calculate how to achieve my next score. They were right; you only get to see paradise once. Each subsequent binge, I enjoy it less. Too late to stop though, I’m an addict.
No comments:
Post a Comment