There were times when ah, I swear, all I wanted to do was dive into the excess. And I mean, I wanted to dive right in, head first, and feel myself submerged in my own special bliss.
I can recall looking at the clock and counting the minutes. I would look at the time and negotiate the hours to make them move quicker.
One by one, the seconds would move me closer to a sensational plunge, which would alter my mind, and separate me from life and limb.
It was right around this time. I knew something was about to happen. I had not gone all in, just yet.
I had gone back to old behaviors and used old defense mechanisms. I went back to the old coping skills of my previous life. Essentially, I went back to the old me because in the simplest terms, I failed to maintain the new person I had become.
To the young, they think they’ll never be old.
For them, they think youth will stay young forever.
This means we can be wild forever.
We can play forever.
We can feel alive forever
and we can live without caution or worry.
When you’re young, tomorrow is just another day.
Nothing really matters.
At least, not really.
When you’re young, you’re still young enough to defy the idea of time.
Time is just a minute away.
And to the young, life is still young
and minutes are more than plentiful.
My Dear Old
It’s been a
long time since we were all together in the same place at the same time. It’s
been even longer since we were the kids from the town, the kids we were, the
kids we used to be, and doing the things we used to do.
Nothing fills a room like emptiness. There may be a chair, or a hard wooden bench or a place to sleep, like a narrow bed, there is still nothing but you an bricked room.
There is a hard floor and a flat ceiling, walls, and a door with a small window at eye-level with wire mesh that intertwines within the glass.
Something went wrong. I was not sure how this happened. I was not sure what took place or what would happen next. I just knew I was about to die. I knew the paranoia had overwhelmed me and I swore (if this were possible) that I was beginning to see the sounds I swore I could hear.
I felt my heart beating through my chest. There was a sensation of pins and needles going down both of my arms, which were numb for some reason.
I was wet and cold.
It was wintertime and I was hiding (like usual) away from the faces, the places, and the people in my town. I was wired and caught up in the aftermath and desperate.
I was at the tail end of a crazy night.
All of the powder was nearly gone and my usual running partner was missing for some reason. This had altered my usual routine. Instead of commiserating with my partner, I found myself home alone with a substantially large amount of cocaine that was either shoved up my nose or cooked and smoked in a glass-tube pipe. This was early summer, 1989.
June if I’m not mistaken.