Misery's Company

movingfinger

(little monolouge i jotted down, i dont do heroin, but i know people that have and do, stuff should be avoided at all cost, without further ado..)

Misery’s Company

I sell misery and yet when I walk outside the sun falls on me like it would anyone else. I still look at the clouds and wonder about greater meanings. You want to be my friend; you love me even as I kill you. My love for you, though my only love, enters your veins and draws back the ache. I created your misery and now I am the only one that can make you forget it. For this, you love me. I stopped counting how many “You’s” I know. I learned not to question when people stop coming to my door; these people that I see every day and every day become harder to see.
It didn’t start this way, yet in the back of my mind I knew this is what I started. We are not as stupid, no, not as ignorant of our own destinies as some would have it. How, then, can it be called a sickness; this self inflicted hell that we love to live. I am a republican; Democrats, leave your table-scrap terms of pity inside your mansions! No, I know of no sickness, no malady of the flesh, which’s cure, is the same as the cause. We love to live; we the users, the pushers of pain relief and we know that to live more closely to death is to live more.
I now live more closely to death as I ever have before. His hand has been on my shoulder for many years, more than I care to count. Now I sense a shift and it seems with each drop of the needle his hand tightens around my neck. How did I let myself slip to this point? I used to be in control of my life; now it seems that no amount of junk can curve the overbearing ache. I call it the ache, that is, the craving of euphoria.
Oh, how it aches! It aches more than my abscessed arms, worse than the absence of anything pure left in my life. And how good it feels to slide that needle between my toes and plunge that dreadful substance into my body. I must stop thinking about it though, or I fear the ache will overcome me.
How many empty vials and baggies I searched through; I must have a little left. My arms are as barren of life as my apartment is of junk and oh how I need junk! Black clouds float by and the corner of my one room comforts the shuddering form I have become. There is not much left in this apartment; anything of value I have already pawned. If only I had a quick fix, it would give me the energy to rob somebody. But no, I have already robbed enough people of enough things. It isn’t my fault, though it never is, they came to me looking for a fix. Where are they now? Where are my friends now that I have nothing left?
I wonder if they are like me. I wonder if they are huddled in their own respective corners, praying to their own respective gods. I suffer more easily knowing that there are others sharing my fate; other’s fate that I undoubtedly had a hand in. Misery loves company, so they say. Misery, the word drips and flows around me. I see it in each needle, each spoon browned to perfection. I am misery; I am the bitter name.
But what’s this? This beautiful thing stumbled upon during a digression. This thing carelessly misplaced behind a pillow. Sweet brown sugar, smack, dope, junk, skunk, a last vestibule, or dinner perhaps, before death shall have its way. Spoon, lighter, needle, my lucky vein; ahhh… sweet euphoria.

FinsburyParkCarrots

I think you did this very well, if you don't mind my saying so. This is very much a prose poem, and if I had to think of an example of canonical literature to which I could compare this, I would say that this piece reminds me a little of one of the voices in Virginia Woolf's "The Waves" both in style and psychological insight, though obviously not in all themes.

Ali

movingfinger wrote:

(little monolouge i jotted down, i dont do heroin, but i know people that have and do, stuff should be avoided at all cost, without further ado..)

Misery’s Company

I sell misery and yet when I walk outside the sun falls on me like it would anyone else. I still look at the clouds and wonder about greater meanings. You want to be my friend; you love me even as I kill you. My love for you, though my only love, enters your veins and draws back the ache. I created your misery and now I am the only one that can make you forget it. For this, you love me. I stopped counting how many “You’s” I know. I learned not to question when people stop coming to my door; these people that I see every day and every day become harder to see.
It didn’t start this way, yet in the back of my mind I knew this is what I started. We are not as stupid, no, not as ignorant of our own destinies as some would have it. How, then, can it be called a sickness; this self inflicted hell that we love to live. I am a republican; Democrats, leave your table-scrap terms of pity inside your mansions! No, I know of no sickness, no malady of the flesh, which’s cure, is the same as the cause. We love to live; we the users, the pushers of pain relief and we know that to live more closely to death is to live more.
I now live more closely to death as I ever have before. His hand has been on my shoulder for many years, more than I care to count. Now I sense a shift and it seems with each drop of the needle his hand tightens around my neck. How did I let myself slip to this point? I used to be in control of my life; now it seems that no amount of junk can curve the overbearing ache. I call it the ache, that is, the craving of euphoria.
Oh, how it aches! It aches more than my abscessed arms, worse than the absence of anything pure left in my life. And how good it feels to slide that needle between my toes and plunge that dreadful substance into my body. I must stop thinking about it though, or I fear the ache will overcome me.
How many empty vials and baggies I searched through; I must have a little left. My arms are as barren of life as my apartment is of junk and oh how I need junk! Black clouds float by and the corner of my one room comforts the shuddering form I have become. There is not much left in this apartment; anything of value I have already pawned. If only I had a quick fix, it would give me the energy to rob somebody. But no, I have already robbed enough people of enough things. It isn’t my fault, though it never is, they came to me looking for a fix. Where are they now? Where are my friends now that I have nothing left?
I wonder if they are like me. I wonder if they are huddled in their own respective corners, praying to their own respective gods. I suffer more easily knowing that there are others sharing my fate; other’s fate that I undoubtedly had a hand in. Misery loves company, so they say. Misery, the word drips and flows around me. I see it in each needle, each spoon browned to perfection. I am misery; I am the bitter name.
But what’s this? This beautiful thing stumbled upon during a digression. This thing carelessly misplaced behind a pillow. Sweet brown sugar, smack, dope, junk, skunk, a last vestibule, or dinner perhaps, before death shall have its way. Spoon, lighter, needle, my lucky vein; ahhh… sweet euphoria.

Very interesting moving Finger.You seem to have captured the pure aesthetics of a wordful junkie.Most are known to be very sensative human beings as well, like most drug users are seeming to look for that kind of escape.
Can I borrow it for my next audition???????????????

grooveamatic

Nicely done, finger. I feel it.

Bravo.

movingfinger

thank you all for your comments, and ali i would feel honored.