Addiction

March 11, 2011


Image by gwenflickr on Flickr.

I think everybody is the addict of their own drug. Its identity does not matter — for in addiction we’re all the same. We seek the pleasure that brings us pain, no matter at what price it comes. We spend our sanity looking for it. We lose our sanity using it. But for what use is sanity in a world without pleasure?

In our darkest hours we sit in corners deprived of light, lingering in the shadows, our souls consumed by hunger. That is pain. Looking out windows streaked by rain, we tell ourselves our addiction has gone too far, and that has to end. But walking away from pleasure is near impossible to do.

Especially so as we experience the ecstasy of our drug anew, and are reminded why we keep taking it. It’s because the pain is such a small price to pay for such immense pleasure. And that’s why we persist through the torturous pain — because the pleasure — however fleeting it may be — is what gives our lives meaning.

No-one but the addict may understand the appeal. But it is there, or there would not be such a thing as addiction.

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Prisoner

March 9, 2011

Eerie
Image by Khaalis on Flickr.

I am a prisoner, free to roam to my heart’s content, but tied down, stuck, unable to move. My body and spirit are clashing, battling. One day mind shall lose to matter.

I hope that day is far away, when I am reduced to nothing more than a whisper in the night, slowly fading as the sun rises to purge the forest of its secrets, when my flame is reduced to a fading trail of smoke, bound to be forgotten.

Tick-Tock

March 3, 2011

Pocket Treasure

Tick-tock.

The nearer the hour draws, the more I realise I fear its end. It will be gone then, never to come again.

Tick-tock.

It’s Raining

February 26, 2011

Rain and birds
Image by Zinius on Flickr.

It’s raining, but the dams protecting my emotions are still whole. Far up in the mountains, upon the snow-covered peaks there was a downpour. I don’t think it was snow; it feels harsher than that. I think it was rain; droplets of water that fell from silver skies, pouring off the sides of the mountains and down onto the valleys below. I think my dams are about to burst, the water wants to flow, down, down, down and seep into the ground that hasn’t been watered for so long.

Water is very different from everything else. It is. And still it is not. If I stick my fingers into it I can feel that it is wet; I can feel its watery lips gently caress and kiss my skin. But what is the feeling of water; is there any such thing? What if water is an illusion, very much like life, and me, myself?

I am overcome with emotion; there’s a storm brewing inside. I’m fumbling in the dark and everyone is waiting for me to fall. They support me, but they don’t do it will all of their heart. They think I’m insane, that I’m crazy, that I’m mad. maybe I am, but the storm pushes me forward. It feels so right, yet I know there can only be pain in the end.

But all addicts are addicted to their drug, that’s why they can’t stop. There’s this ecstasy of taking it, and no abyss can deter them from taking it again. And still it hurts, and it feels so good. And all you want is for it to go away. But when you see it leave, you freak, you cry, because you don’t want to lose it. So you catch it again, caress it and kiss it and say you’ll never part.

Life is torture, but feeling nothing at all would be death.

And still, hidden among the raging clouds that obscure the snow-covered fells, I know that there is hope. It’s tangible. But maybe it is because I want it to be. Maybe it’s a bird of hope that’s made of glass. When I touch it it’s going to break, because it was made for hands that aren’t mine.

I shiver, because I don’t want to see that bird of hope flying among the raging clouds. I don’t want to see it, because if I ever catch it, how can I know it will not break?

It’s raining. And I’m still here.