Tag Archives: junkie

so… does it make sense now?

… the junkie/doctor fork…

the road less traveled?

I don’t know which road I took. less traveled… more traveled. I don’t really care. quantity… quality… quality… quantity…

I just… I’m through. I mean, if I choose no longer to be a junkie… and the voice I’ve found, through the writing that I’ve done… through the people that I’ve met… enticed… kept… lost… love…

I found it.

I’ve searched. And I’ve found it.

The thing is…. I don’t need it anymore, maybe.

I mean, the crutch of the ‘voice’.

I have learned to speak. Maybe it’s time to screw the training wheels off…

Bittersweet.

It renders my absolute crushing need for writing and creating images…. for everything that I felt I was not and for everything that these words and images reassured me that I was at a time when magic was king and the image superb.

The time when I felt so much more than I could understand and express.

That time.

Like a neuron in the prefrontal cortex suddenly jolted with electricity. For seconds… maybe minutes?

I could express, empathize… feel

just something. Something that was important.

Maybe I was fool, maybe I was young, maybe I was sad.

Maybe at the time the blinding white glowing node in my heart ached for something that my brain didn’t understand.

It’s time to move on…

 

Pre-med; Med; WTF!?

I have written many times that instead of becoming a junkie, I should have, oh, you know… gone into medicine.

This might not make sense.

I use the term “junkie” very specifically. Syringes, vein puncture, the spoon, all the fallen caps & the wondrous crimson cloud. For example, my last stint in drug bliss… I was an intranasal meth user. 2 years approximately. I didn’t then, nor do I now, looking back, consider that ‘being a junkie’.

A couple of years before that, I was shooting the purest ice [meth] one could ever dissolve in saline in a spoon, daily, for two years. This is junkie behaviour.

Simply, junkie = syringes.

I like the spike. I am or was that person who would shoot innocuous saline [with no physical 'high' value] when I ran out of drugs, just to witness the crimson cloud.

And now we get to the crimson cloud. Oh, the lovely lovely… I am getting chills just by thinking about it… crimson cloud.

How to define it to do it justice?

 

Bruised

I presently have a noticeable purple bruise on the back of my left hand. A circular central subcutaneous bleed right where the surface veins fork.

I don’t like it.

I don’t know how I got it. But I don’t care. I don’t like it.

I’m not ashamed of my spike past, but if I’m going to have a noticeable bruise so veinously caused… the least I could do was get high.

But that’s not true. I don’t know why this bruise bothers me. I just don’t want it.

I don’t care if people see it and direct their brains to travel the vein-bruise-as-junkie route. As no one ever does anyway.

There’s just something.

It’s not allowed.

This is different. This is not I bumped my knee and bruised-bruise. It’s not even I punch a wall in drunken rage and bruise-fuckin’-bruise.

This bruise specifically stems out of the veins in my hand and creates a bleed directly under my skin.

It’s not allowed to look this way, be this thing, if I didn’t push through the delicate vein. It’s small, but I never asked to look through my yearbook. But more importantly, I never allowed it to look back.