Omg the op said what I have been thinking for YEARS on the original thread. That bullshit from trainspotting about heroin rush feeling like 1000 orgasms is a load of crap. For us junkies no one captures the true essence of what it feels like to be a junky like William Burroughs. Its a complex and very unique typeof suffering that is all too often stereotyped and pushed into this simple one dimensioned addict archetype. Ur average person who has never been under the spell of the poppy only knows the requiem and trainspotting junky because they are simple and easy to swallow. Easy to stigmatize and fear. Platitudes from trainspotting like "heroin is like your best orgasm times 1000" are repeated endlessly but meaningless. The sexual act is the essence of new life and creation, the manifestation of love. Heroin is the essence of decay and entropy, the chemical manifestation of deaths. Polar opposites The junky is a complex creature ethereal and odd with a brand of pain and despair oh so hard to capture. He is a hideous and strange yet beautifully tragic creature so alien to the unititiated masses that he feels like hes from interzone as he wanders through society. Borroughs nails it. As Neil young said so poetically "every junky's like a setting sun".
But I cant concur with ur opinion that smack isn't all that addictive. Certain people just have something about them... Idk if its chemical or has to do with their personalities or maybe its a childhood trauma reaction... but for certain people once u try it u know u just altered the course of ur existence permanently. It just fits like something you've craved since conception and never knew it. It just fills this empty space inside and latches on. I will always think of that rush from time to time even if I am clean for a hundred years I will have those dark moments when there's a sleepy pleasant tug at some primal reptilian bit of my subconscious mind. Its some long dormant monster that feeds like a parasite on my willpower, my dignity, my rational mind and everything that makes me human. It lies asleep forever in those poor souls. We are its chosen people. A depraved 13th tribe hand picked at the dawn of time by some twisted black Messiah of the damned. It would sleep forever were it not for the sublimely soft siren song of the poppy. Like a chant from some ancient necromomic text in chemical form; its structure refined, its route of administration honed through the ages until it finds the perfect pattern of sylabic atomic structure to call it forth. Unholy union of sound and form, for once the plunger hits zero you've awakened the beast. He will become your god. All powerful and full of fiery abrahamic old testament wrath. Devouring worlds like Shiva. Hedon Bacchus. Ravenously feeding on your very humanity. Be glad ur not one of us. I dream about shooting up. I feel the rush in my sleep. I fetishize the needle like a masochist for his dominatrix. If I don't smoke pot for a while I start to forget what it felt like. The sensation fades from memory and dies. Same with coke benzos alcohol psychedelics and every other drug. I will never forget that opiate rush. Burned into me its a haunting memory like a murdered lover.
The abhorrece toward this self mutilating ritual long overuled by the pavlovian thrill the sting of the needle implies when im withdrawing. Giddy from the expectation quelling the shakes. Already sickly sweet pleasure like rancid meat to a starving dog. The ritual has become intestinguishable from the sensation. Stimulus and response fusing in euphoric placebo. The sting gives nonchemical pleasure based on potential. Real because i believe it into existence. But still real. manifested into being from mind. Like god. No pleasure without pain. You must punish to reward. You deserve it. You are sick. The attack before the note. The cloud of milky crimson expanding like a mushroom cloud as u draw back to register. The violent red moving slowly through the yeilding brown is merely a chemical illusion. It does not become you. There is no victory. The careful push. Dont miss a drop. Pushing slow and theres no sting when it exits. Only a few seconds now oooooooh please be good. Onee-and-u-two-e-and-u-three-e-and-ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh. No more restless agony. It is good. It begins. Sinks warm into the pit ofnyour stomach and rises to your chest. Breathing slow now. Warm embrace. Its all around you now. Spreading through your limbs like warm sleepy syrup.
This ritual of lost souls with me forever like hail Marys and our fathers from sister Catherine. Its all religion in some twisted way. Faith is not pure forever. One day you suffer. Suffering then doubt. Strange thoughts now. Bits of Sunday classes. God the father. God is love. This is good. A rock of ages is a fixed point forever. You sin and move away. The distance is pain. Move back to the rock. Faith was so easy then. So simple. Of course father is God. They tell me so. It is so. Innocence was bliss. So easy to believe. It all felt so real.
Now there is only doubt. I have suffered and suffered. Faith became strange stories. Myths and symbols are only as simple as the beholder. They become as life becomes. Layers fall each year each more complex like snow. Baroque encryptions safeguarding salvation from the apathetic hordes. You must lose it to find it. Or was it ever there?. Now you must make it real. Endless equations with missing variables. Insert faith here. Make it real. BELIEVE.
But I have become weak. Heroin is God fornthe weak. A fixed point. Its always there. I move away it hurts. I move closer its good. It feels so real. Realer than anything now. Pleasure and pain are real. The needle feels real. The blood and the rush are real. Its all there like before. The powerful rock of pleasure and pain. The distance ratio. And it feels real like before too. So real and its so easy again. God for the weak. And it feels so fucking good. For now.