Someone whispers: ‘Watching you fall apart is like watching a poem write itself.’
And ten years move past me.
It feels like I’m falling.
Then I wake up.
In bed.
The morning sun glows with a golden hue as it filters through the curtains.
I’m sleeping in the middle of the bed now. I no longer wake up at night worrying that I’m crowding her.
The indentation of her body is gone.
The vague smell of her perfume has dissipated.
My loneliness becomes duller with each year and each month and each day.
‘Quit trying so hard to find meaning in your life.’ This man in front of me, this stranger that I know so well, he raises his hand up to my shoulder and grips it, I wince. He’s facing me, looking me in the eyes. ‘Instead, why don’t you go give your life meaning?’
2047 years into my life, haven’t I already found a meaning?
Maybe I’ve found more meanings than I can forget.
The truth is that I’ve found nothing but failure and drugs.
2037 years followed by 10 years of falling apart.
I’m a shadow.
And this man, he’s gripping me hard. He wants me to understand. He wants me to move forward.
I smile and nod and don’t bother to take in what he says. I never do.
This man, his name is Jim, he’s my new friend, and by friend I mean that he talks to me.
It’s funny how change happens so quickly when you let your guard down.
There was a day when I knew what tomorrow would hold. Certainty was all I knew.
I live moment by moment, and I hate it. The uncertainty of it all, the lack of a safety net. Everything feels dangerous; each moment exists on shaky ground.
My only escape is in a drug that has no name.
A safe haven from the fear that tomorrow brings.
Jim, he wants me to climb out of this hole. He wants me to live.
It’s a nice thought.
I appreciate that he cares, but every day I swallow a pill and slip away and try to pretend that the mess of my life doesn’t exist; his caring can’t seem to change that.
Jim asks; ‘where do you want to be?’
The answer is automatic as I tell him ‘I want to be back at home.’
‘Where is your home?’
‘It doesn’t exist anymore.’
‘Why doesn’t it exist?’
‘It disappeared with my wife.’
‘Your wife left you?’
‘I think so.’
‘Can’t you go back?’
‘I’m not sure if she exists anymore.’
Jim gives me a look, one that I can’t define, one that leaves me cold.
‘Well if you can’t go back to the way things were, why don’t you just make something better? Give your life a new meaning.’
I look at Jim. I’m blank.
I keep telling myself that sometimes we don’t bother to realize that there is more to life than what we’ve experienced and what we’ve seen.
I keep telling myself this and I keep forgetting to listen. I’m always forgetting.
Body odor hits my nose.
Stop. Go. Stop.
Jim smiles.
I start to walk away.
Jim says goodbye.
I say goodbye.
I’ll see him again soon. He’ll talk to me and try to be inspirational and I will dodge his questions and not listen to the things he has to say.
Jim, my friend on the city bus, he’s just another stranger.
And then I’m off. I look around. I’m nervous and excited. I rub my hands together.
They say that everyone needs a vice, something to take away the monotony, the routine, the fear. They say that we all fall back on something, and when we can’t find something natural; something like exercise or love, we find something chemical, like booze or pills.
In a parking lot.
The city is living and breathing around me. I’m looking shifty and nervous. My hands are anxious. I’m looking like anyone else hoping for another fix.
A fix to cope.
A fix to fill the void.
A fix to create a void.
Ingesting designer drugs that no one ever takes. Recreational drugs that have all been forgotten by the world at large. People don’t do drugs because they don’t realize they have a void. People don’t realize they have a void because they don’t even know it’s possible to have a void.
There is no loss. Only gain, at least for most people.
The ones with steady jobs.
The ones with true love.
The people with routines and comfort and a vague definition of happiness.
They don’t know loss; they don’t know anything other than the feeling of coasting. But, just because you don’t know or perceive something, that doesn’t mean it’s not there.
When I had a job I didn’t know loss.
When I didn’t have loss I didn’t think of anyone but myself.
I still only think about myself.
Mostly because I’m all I have. That and pushers that make me feel like I can escape.
So here I am. Talking to this man I’ve met a hundred times. Talking to the man that sells the drugs that make me think I still have a job and a wife and a reality that doesn’t resemble the guest bedroom in my parent’s home.
One hundred pills.
I stole the money to buy these. Stole it from my parents.
‘So how are you?’ I’m trying to strike up conversation with my dealer.
He laughs.
Shakes his head.
Junkies always try and befriend their dealer, they want a free ride.
Dealers don’t befriend junkies.
I’m a junky.
I’m addicted to a former reality.
Sometimes when you lose a routine, you’ll try anything to hold onto it. Desperately clawing, clinging and screaming.
We’re all addicts in denial.
