Hey guys, i just did this creative writing piece for an assignment i had to do a while ago. I felt it has significant relevance to drugs, and the people who visit bluelight might find it interesting.
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One Man’s Junk……
Alleys aren’t generally reserved for saints - that’s for sure. And the alley I’m standing in now certainly does nothing to break that myth.
Graffiti covered brick walls – CHECK.
Over-flowing dumpster with stray cats – CHECK.
Shifty characters in darkly clad get-up - CHECK.
There all here. You know the drill, just your typical alley pictorial. Nothing unusual in its unusualness. Even the token junkie is nodding off on his blue mat, deeply involved in solving the world’s problems. How am I suppose to observe life here, when every known participant in an alley scene is already playing their part? I mean, tell a class of school children to describe an alley and no doubt their list will appear exactly as I have stated above. Maybe I’ll just stare at the junkie for awhile.
Have you ever seen those ads on tele where they show a man doing his washing at the local laundromat? You know the ones where they just focus on the simplicity of life - like the man spin-cycling his clothes is a good representation of normality? I think it’s an ad about schizophrenia or some other unjustified affliction man suffers? You know it? Well, anyway, the point i'm trying to make is this – normality is a gift. Routine, social structure, doing the washing etc. are all gifts. They are priceless endeavours given to us by some divine providence; to be handled with care. We have to learn to appreciate the opportunities we have. You know? To fulfill even the most mundane of tasks is to be human. Cherish it -
The junkie seems pleased in his reverie. I notice his lips are parching, extending into the far corners of his face – maybe he is smiling. Who knows? Who knows what junkie’s think of when their smacked out, lying on the pavement? I can’t imagine much. There is certainly not very much to look at it in his periphery. A couple of discarded cigarette packets, puddles of fresh rain – nothing that could stimulate his wild imagination. I guess he probably doesn’t want to reflect on life either. Just another sinner on auto-pilot; looking to cop, feeding the monkey. Who would want to remind themselves of that? So, where too then for Mr. Junkie and his swag?
- But, I guess, not everyone does. We all, including my former self, take routine for granted. We wake up, roll out of bed, snap one off, light up a fag, feed the cats and generally just fulfill our daily tasks with such insouciance, that reason fades out of memory. It becomes such an eerily familiar procession, devoid of emotion, devoid of the fond appreciation we have given to life in times gone by. It is easy to forget what we really are. Yeah, you can get all philosophical on me and list the existential value of life, but what does that really leave us with? Nothing. That kind of analysis serves no purpose. What we need is, is to appreciate life’s intricacies. To hold on to those moments of sanity, casting off the depression that the daily grind brings us. Next time you are doing the washing, I want you to smile, endeavouring to thank those who have granted you this task of normality.
I have always wondered why junkies give up so much for that fix. What is it about heroin that makes sleeping in a gutter feel so good? There’s got to be something to it. For a drug to be able to remove self control and sanctity with such force, that misery becomes a lifestyle – well - what is it? How can people forget the enormous stigma attached to heroin? It certainly hasn’t got that reputation for no reason. I mean, take Johnny B. Heroin-Junkie in front of me – surely a quick fast-forward to what life will be like once he takes heroin is enough to scare him away? Do you like the feel of frosty pavement as you fall asleep little man, homeless and desolate? Well, get used to it buddy.
As kids, everything was novel. It was like you were suddenly let go of the shackles of repentant blindness, sent on a booze filled journey of amazement. Delving into the underbelly of life at every step; finding cheap entertainment in plastic swing sets flying dangerously close to orbit, gnawing away at any of life’s problems with the simplest breath of innocence. Ah, to be a child again, you/they/we all say. But we needn’t say it. We need not look at life as though all the good times are over. Life is a chaotic ride, with highs and lows and gut wrenching bends that make any first-timer scared to step on board. It’s a pressure filled contest, with companions and adversaries marking your every step to the top. But once you get there, the view is pretty damn fine. It’s a high that no A-grade, fresh-off-the-brick China-White smack could overtake. And I know. I tried getting to the top, via the ladder. I took the easy road. I chose heroin. I wanted all the highs, without first plundering the lows. I wanted the iniquitous. To have the warm breath of Morpheus weaving through my veins. I wanted to inhale the smoke that started wars, and destroyed empires. I wanted opiated bliss. I wanted it to give meaning to emptiness, and then when meaning was lost, I wanted more to stop the fall.
The streets can’t be an easy place to live - especially this area. I was always told never to come down this way, never to meddle in the lives of the decrepit. But, like many decisions in my life, I had to take the risk. I wanted to know if destitution really had a postcode. I guess I found it. A place of no hope, where the shadows of inequality steal the remaining light.
Oh, how suburban bred righteousness loses all meaning when you observe a junky fixing his feed.
Was I expecting him to respond, to justify his lifestyle? Maybe, but then I remembered a distant relative once describing the power of heroin….the feeling of pure sedition, warmth and relaxation; the feeling of ultimate euphoria….. I doubt the junky wanted to convince me of anything really.
I am sure, if you saw me now, you’d probably ask, what is so great about Heroin? What can be so great, that it has left you here, cold, fetid and unkempt while you wallow in your nonsense? What kind of fix could leave you so lonely and vacuous on this train wreck going nowhere?
Yeah, it’s so easy being righteous. I was once like you too, observing and criticizing those who appeared different. God I wish I could just be normal again.
It’s like that kid over there, watching me, thinking I can’t see his mystified expression. What? You’ve never seen an addict before? I used to be exactly like you, mate, full of vibrancy, looking for my next adventure. Well this is what happens to the curious. Inevitability is a bitch. And that’s where my tirade has left me – hanging on out on the proverbial Hills-Hoist, drying myself of society’s scourge. Well I tried drying myself, but I failed. I could only handle three days of cold-turkey before I jumped back on that circus ride. Now I am just hanging out in the wind, letting the clutter of society blow straight past me. If only I could be normal again.
-------------------------------------------------------------
One Man’s Junk……
Alleys aren’t generally reserved for saints - that’s for sure. And the alley I’m standing in now certainly does nothing to break that myth.
Graffiti covered brick walls – CHECK.
Over-flowing dumpster with stray cats – CHECK.
Shifty characters in darkly clad get-up - CHECK.
There all here. You know the drill, just your typical alley pictorial. Nothing unusual in its unusualness. Even the token junkie is nodding off on his blue mat, deeply involved in solving the world’s problems. How am I suppose to observe life here, when every known participant in an alley scene is already playing their part? I mean, tell a class of school children to describe an alley and no doubt their list will appear exactly as I have stated above. Maybe I’ll just stare at the junkie for awhile.
Have you ever seen those ads on tele where they show a man doing his washing at the local laundromat? You know the ones where they just focus on the simplicity of life - like the man spin-cycling his clothes is a good representation of normality? I think it’s an ad about schizophrenia or some other unjustified affliction man suffers? You know it? Well, anyway, the point i'm trying to make is this – normality is a gift. Routine, social structure, doing the washing etc. are all gifts. They are priceless endeavours given to us by some divine providence; to be handled with care. We have to learn to appreciate the opportunities we have. You know? To fulfill even the most mundane of tasks is to be human. Cherish it -
The junkie seems pleased in his reverie. I notice his lips are parching, extending into the far corners of his face – maybe he is smiling. Who knows? Who knows what junkie’s think of when their smacked out, lying on the pavement? I can’t imagine much. There is certainly not very much to look at it in his periphery. A couple of discarded cigarette packets, puddles of fresh rain – nothing that could stimulate his wild imagination. I guess he probably doesn’t want to reflect on life either. Just another sinner on auto-pilot; looking to cop, feeding the monkey. Who would want to remind themselves of that? So, where too then for Mr. Junkie and his swag?
- But, I guess, not everyone does. We all, including my former self, take routine for granted. We wake up, roll out of bed, snap one off, light up a fag, feed the cats and generally just fulfill our daily tasks with such insouciance, that reason fades out of memory. It becomes such an eerily familiar procession, devoid of emotion, devoid of the fond appreciation we have given to life in times gone by. It is easy to forget what we really are. Yeah, you can get all philosophical on me and list the existential value of life, but what does that really leave us with? Nothing. That kind of analysis serves no purpose. What we need is, is to appreciate life’s intricacies. To hold on to those moments of sanity, casting off the depression that the daily grind brings us. Next time you are doing the washing, I want you to smile, endeavouring to thank those who have granted you this task of normality.
I have always wondered why junkies give up so much for that fix. What is it about heroin that makes sleeping in a gutter feel so good? There’s got to be something to it. For a drug to be able to remove self control and sanctity with such force, that misery becomes a lifestyle – well - what is it? How can people forget the enormous stigma attached to heroin? It certainly hasn’t got that reputation for no reason. I mean, take Johnny B. Heroin-Junkie in front of me – surely a quick fast-forward to what life will be like once he takes heroin is enough to scare him away? Do you like the feel of frosty pavement as you fall asleep little man, homeless and desolate? Well, get used to it buddy.
As kids, everything was novel. It was like you were suddenly let go of the shackles of repentant blindness, sent on a booze filled journey of amazement. Delving into the underbelly of life at every step; finding cheap entertainment in plastic swing sets flying dangerously close to orbit, gnawing away at any of life’s problems with the simplest breath of innocence. Ah, to be a child again, you/they/we all say. But we needn’t say it. We need not look at life as though all the good times are over. Life is a chaotic ride, with highs and lows and gut wrenching bends that make any first-timer scared to step on board. It’s a pressure filled contest, with companions and adversaries marking your every step to the top. But once you get there, the view is pretty damn fine. It’s a high that no A-grade, fresh-off-the-brick China-White smack could overtake. And I know. I tried getting to the top, via the ladder. I took the easy road. I chose heroin. I wanted all the highs, without first plundering the lows. I wanted the iniquitous. To have the warm breath of Morpheus weaving through my veins. I wanted to inhale the smoke that started wars, and destroyed empires. I wanted opiated bliss. I wanted it to give meaning to emptiness, and then when meaning was lost, I wanted more to stop the fall.
The streets can’t be an easy place to live - especially this area. I was always told never to come down this way, never to meddle in the lives of the decrepit. But, like many decisions in my life, I had to take the risk. I wanted to know if destitution really had a postcode. I guess I found it. A place of no hope, where the shadows of inequality steal the remaining light.
Oh, how suburban bred righteousness loses all meaning when you observe a junky fixing his feed.
Was I expecting him to respond, to justify his lifestyle? Maybe, but then I remembered a distant relative once describing the power of heroin….the feeling of pure sedition, warmth and relaxation; the feeling of ultimate euphoria….. I doubt the junky wanted to convince me of anything really.
I am sure, if you saw me now, you’d probably ask, what is so great about Heroin? What can be so great, that it has left you here, cold, fetid and unkempt while you wallow in your nonsense? What kind of fix could leave you so lonely and vacuous on this train wreck going nowhere?
Yeah, it’s so easy being righteous. I was once like you too, observing and criticizing those who appeared different. God I wish I could just be normal again.
It’s like that kid over there, watching me, thinking I can’t see his mystified expression. What? You’ve never seen an addict before? I used to be exactly like you, mate, full of vibrancy, looking for my next adventure. Well this is what happens to the curious. Inevitability is a bitch. And that’s where my tirade has left me – hanging on out on the proverbial Hills-Hoist, drying myself of society’s scourge. Well I tried drying myself, but I failed. I could only handle three days of cold-turkey before I jumped back on that circus ride. Now I am just hanging out in the wind, letting the clutter of society blow straight past me. If only I could be normal again.
