(no subject)
it's just a harmless vessicle of motley chemicals forced together in the murkey waters of a bathtub in a genric apartment. they are isolated, fused, packaged, and moved around until they no longer resemble their former selves or serve the same purpose. dyed, broken up by razor blades, pushed back together by platnium visa cards. their final voyage on their short journey is to weather the unpredictable maelstrom of arteries, veins, blood vessels and....you. and the moment you swallow or sniff or exhale, you know there's no turning back. then there's the moment of panic. the make a run for it. the wanting to run to the nearest toilet and shove your fingers down until everything you've ingested for the past 19 years is before you, vulnerable and clear. but don't even stop there, because purification requires blank white space, and you're not done until you've heaved nothingness. this is the fear. the last stage of recognition before the plunge. the fraying tight-rope between addiction and the sudden overwhelming desire for sobriety. the maybe i need a hospital, a stomach pump, a diuretic, a anything to get it out. out. fuck. get it out, i don't want this. i don't think this feels right. SOMEONE GET THIS OUT, SOMEONE someone help. but fuck, everyone is too fucked up to notice or understand or care. HOLY SHIT THEY CANT HEAR. code red, blue, FUCKING ANYTHING. and you could scream code after code into the walkie talkie of desperation, but no amount of boot camp could mobilize troops equipped with the skills to battle what's to come. chemists would suckle the tips of their black horn-rimmed glasses in pensive worry before the colorful reactions of test tubes and beakers being constucted in the chem lab that is your brain. the next 15 minutes to 8 hours could range from neuronic orgasm to toxic death. and no hue of white or measurement of the coordinates of the smiley upon the pill is going to tell you what to expect. you could raise your identical pills and toast to the same god, philisophical concept, or state of mind. at the drop of the referee's scarf, you could move your starbucks-truncated straw along the same drag race of powder. you might drink from the same water bottle and see the same ethereal image form from the sinuous curves of neon lights as they form a helix of mythical snakes above your head. but the guy 3 feet to the left might still drop dead as you're careful not to step on his limbs. there's too much variation and "what if this is the time it happens to me?" and i'm just...
for the first time
not invincible.
for the first time
not invincible.