Vintage Audiocide
Bluelighter
Gonna try to update this every few minutes after initial.
It is now 21.48 and I have the syringe filled.
The old hide-and-seek game with a vein begins. Finding one, I insert and draw. Nice and dark.
21.49 and I slowly ease the plunger down.
I feel it as it surges through my left arm. My typing becomes awkward, and then slow and deliberate. My eyes become very comfortable with the light they are being forced to take in.
Sitting here, post-rush now. It's been awhile since I've had any rush. It's such a warm and subtle comfortability, yet it is so present without being overtaking.
As heroin's many hands grasp my body, I slip very deeply down, down into something I forgot was there. A hole within yourself, so perfect and protected.
21.55 : That's what this feeling is. Protection. It's such a personal and private thing, to be shielded behind great apathy. I know my guitar is out of tune. I know I really don't care. It's sort of fun to just pluck away. No chordal structure here.
Everything I percieve has become soft. Padded by a very real coating of diamorphine. Padded for my protection.
I drink the slightest amount of Crown in a gulp's worth of spiced Earl Grey tea.
So warm.
I'm going to move about now. And perhaps find out how far this protection extends.
Edit: Continuance.
My night then consisted mainly of floating off to the big town and enjoying a small IV dose yet again. Taking in the nightlife, going to Guitar Center.
There is but one way I can describe heroin, and it doesn't seem good enough. It feels so very protective. It does not make you go half-ass passing out the first time you do it.
It feels like a complete and whole security, an impenetrable shield of no worries or unease. You slide back into a mindframe that does not register an impure thought.
You can continue in this way, pondering why it all feels so good. Slow and deliberate consideration of how completely overwhelming what our world thrives on can be.
Words say so little - we are given the gift of communication, yet we still can't accurately get across a feeling. It has to be sympathized with. We cannot give it to you. We can only tell you what we'd like you to feel.
--mic
It is now 21.48 and I have the syringe filled.
The old hide-and-seek game with a vein begins. Finding one, I insert and draw. Nice and dark.
21.49 and I slowly ease the plunger down.
I feel it as it surges through my left arm. My typing becomes awkward, and then slow and deliberate. My eyes become very comfortable with the light they are being forced to take in.
Sitting here, post-rush now. It's been awhile since I've had any rush. It's such a warm and subtle comfortability, yet it is so present without being overtaking.
As heroin's many hands grasp my body, I slip very deeply down, down into something I forgot was there. A hole within yourself, so perfect and protected.
21.55 : That's what this feeling is. Protection. It's such a personal and private thing, to be shielded behind great apathy. I know my guitar is out of tune. I know I really don't care. It's sort of fun to just pluck away. No chordal structure here.
Everything I percieve has become soft. Padded by a very real coating of diamorphine. Padded for my protection.
I drink the slightest amount of Crown in a gulp's worth of spiced Earl Grey tea.
So warm.
I'm going to move about now. And perhaps find out how far this protection extends.
Edit: Continuance.
My night then consisted mainly of floating off to the big town and enjoying a small IV dose yet again. Taking in the nightlife, going to Guitar Center.
There is but one way I can describe heroin, and it doesn't seem good enough. It feels so very protective. It does not make you go half-ass passing out the first time you do it.
It feels like a complete and whole security, an impenetrable shield of no worries or unease. You slide back into a mindframe that does not register an impure thought.
You can continue in this way, pondering why it all feels so good. Slow and deliberate consideration of how completely overwhelming what our world thrives on can be.
Words say so little - we are given the gift of communication, yet we still can't accurately get across a feeling. It has to be sympathized with. We cannot give it to you. We can only tell you what we'd like you to feel.
--mic
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