Sick with circumstance.
As I look around I understand two things, I was never addicted to the drugs, Or the booze, if only it could be that simple. No I was addicted to the destruction of circumstance, and as I see the cans pile up like mistakes I’ve made and the bloody saliva fill up the glass it’s hard to tell if it’s half full or half empty. Life is too complex to simplify into optimism and pessimism. The second thing was that when I’m cut off from the civilized world and still bombarded by circumstance, I’m still a junkie in the most literal, skin scratching, head nodding, darting eyes sense of the word. A junkie who soaks it all in, drunk or sober, I absorb it all. A cotton in the spoon of life. What comes out is also a matter of circumstance. No intention of going extremely large scale, but I am the human equivalent of a black hole. I absorb everything within a certain radius, sickness, health, better, worse and what comes out the other side is both a mystery and a random act of conceptual violence. The product has the same functional probability of being a flaming pile of chaotic shit and gore as it does of being a perfectly balanced universe filled with circumferential spinning biospheres that repeat themselves infinitely. This wasteland on the night stand does not feel infinite or on fire, fuck either one would be preferable to the stillness they represent, the complete halt in time and motion. Incomparable to any other situation, it’s like watching ice melt and seeing more ice on the other side Quarantined was designed to keep me from spewing a deadly condition into the community, if you can even call this ever separating tribal landscape a community. This city I’m building out of my own aluminum and organic refuse it a subconscious attempt to feel safe, a part of something, behind a castle and protected. No junkie is a junkie without his hut, four walls of trash and belongings and memories attached to objects like talismans, to be strewn about in a twisted sort of organization, to reflect the internal emotions that cannot penetrate the chemical barrier. My hut is built of cans, plates, peels and complacency. As I tear the walls down I realize that the withdrawn feeling has started to abate. We’re the feelings of loneliness and isolation worth protecting? I guess isolation and chronic mental masturbation are not as fun, or at least lose their illusion of depth when it’s not your own choice to dive in. Self deprecation was only a trend worth following when I was the pied piper. Now that I stand dancing a repetitive jig to a systematic drum, banging my symbols with a plastic “I’m okay” smile on my face, I can’t help but feel that I should just cut the strings and run as fast as I can towards the sunset. If only it were that simple, if only the drugs were my master, the cans were just trash, and the circumstances were, well, circumstantial. They are not. Master of my own destiny? I lean more towards projectile of fate. I’ve tried both and don’t like the heavy after effects and hangover of the former. But when the latter hits the blood stream, when the fucking realization kicks in and the lightness engulphs your body filling your mind with levity and finger tips with exploding tingles! Now that, that thing, takes my breath away every time. Until the end. “Sick puppy” “covid catcher” “ writer in shambles” Travis muffhuggin ryan