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Description
Trying to find a pulse in a house for deadbeats, impossible, but I was doing it.
I was trying to find a rhythm somewhere between the hooligans and the burnouts, but there wasn't any. All drunk and half-asleep, with a whiskey in their left palm. Hanging over the sides of couches, and the streamers falling apart. A birthday hat on the floor next to an unconscious mind. Everyone was trying to fit in, to be geometrically straight. To be a solid figure.
Syringes in this house are easier to find than the silverware. Laying on the counters, floors, anywhere. Bags of dope, weed, in the same places. I used to climb to the roof, and just leave it all there, where no one would find it. Sometimes I just needed to feel a little higher than I already was.
And when I look in the mirror, all I see is a forgotten past. I don't recognize myself anymore, but that's nothing new. My appearance changes in my perspective every day. But let's just say my face looks more mature than it did a century ago.
If you've never done any of this, you can't tell me you've never wanted something more. You've never wanted to try it, to go outside your limits, and find new creations that lurked inside of you. Thoughts you never knew you had.
How I got here was simple. Stepping up steps were the only steps I took to step on other people. When you've walked up and down at least 100 staircases, you know how to walk on people. You know how to get everything you want. You can feel the burn, and you know how to ignite it now.
You can tell the whole world is going to die when your own eyes get dry. The
sparkle they once had hides and the shimmer fades. That's when the future gets
boring. Then you forget your childhood, and you know everything about everyone. How and when someone will die. You only think you know it, and there's nothing you can do to help or change it. So you live with it, you shrug it off.
In this house, the drugs were so heavy you could get high by breathing the air. It was palpable, thick with Hawaiian Bluegrass and Electros.
I started this house to help them. I built it myself to help them get through their lives without the misery of having to shoot up every two hours. After the government made it all legal, everyone had it. But that made it too easy, so people wanted a challenge. They wanted to steal, they wanted to be illegal. Rebels without a cause. I jumped in to save them. First I was a seraphim and then I was the overdosing demon. They pulled me in at the last second.
Funny how a person can change like that, right on the dime.
And occasionally, someone would get so fucked up, you'd take advantage of them. To feel the rush. It was a little easier to taste the high on their breath, but when you're alone for a century, you know when it's going to take a while longer. When you're orphaned, and the only people who take you in are named Crystal and Mary Jane, you know you're getting in too deep.
This is where the government when wrong, when they passed this bill. Maybe they mistook it for another one. Maybe they never meant to pass it. It didn't matter now, I was hooked.
I climbed up on to the granite roof and looked down at the street. No one would see me snort crack when snow covered everything.
Somewhere in the world, someone was jumping off a building. I sat on the
shingles wondering how it felt to get that rush of adrenaline when you fly
like that. I stopped wondering and jumped. I needed one last high, and I figured
the way to do it was to take it quite literally. And bam, I'm in a hospital bed
with an IV in my arm. I'm used to needles by now, so it doesn't bother me.
They kept me on life support in the ICU, until dear old mom couldn't handle it
anymore. I couldn't feel a thing, and quite frankly, I wanted it to stay that
way. It was a little under a day there until I pulled my own plug and collapsed
on the hospital floor. Numbed forever, high forever.
Don't worry about me now, I can't be fixed, solved. I'll just lie here forever
until someone decides it's time for me to go. Even then, this floor will be more
comfortable than six feet under dirt and rocks and gravel and feet. Dead men
tell no tales, so I guess this story ends with me. I guess this goes with me to
my grave. And that's perfectly okay.

Description
Trying to find a pulse in a house for deadbeats, impossible, but I was doing it.
I was trying to find a rhythm somewhere between the hooligans and the burnouts, but there wasn't any. All drunk and half-asleep, with a whiskey in their left palm. Hanging over the sides of couches, and the streamers falling apart. A birthday hat on the floor next to an unconscious mind. Everyone was trying to fit in, to be geometrically straight. To be a solid figure.
Syringes in this house are easier to find than the silverware. Laying on the counters, floors, anywhere. Bags of dope, weed, in the same places. I used to climb to the roof, and just leave it all there, where no one would find it. Sometimes I just needed to feel a little higher than I already was.
And when I look in the mirror, all I see is a forgotten past. I don't recognize myself anymore, but that's nothing new. My appearance changes in my perspective every day. But let's just say my face looks more mature than it did a century ago.
If you've never done any of this, you can't tell me you've never wanted something more. You've never wanted to try it, to go outside your limits, and find new creations that lurked inside of you. Thoughts you never knew you had.
How I got here was simple. Stepping up steps were the only steps I took to step on other people. When you've walked up and down at least 100 staircases, you know how to walk on people. You know how to get everything you want. You can feel the burn, and you know how to ignite it now.
You can tell the whole world is going to die when your own eyes get dry. The
sparkle they once had hides and the shimmer fades. That's when the future gets
boring. Then you forget your childhood, and you know everything about everyone. How and when someone will die. You only think you know it, and there's nothing you can do to help or change it. So you live with it, you shrug it off.
In this house, the drugs were so heavy you could get high by breathing the air. It was palpable, thick with Hawaiian Bluegrass and Electros.
I started this house to help them. I built it myself to help them get through their lives without the misery of having to shoot up every two hours. After the government made it all legal, everyone had it. But that made it too easy, so people wanted a challenge. They wanted to steal, they wanted to be illegal. Rebels without a cause. I jumped in to save them. First I was a seraphim and then I was the overdosing demon. They pulled me in at the last second.
Funny how a person can change like that, right on the dime.
And occasionally, someone would get so fucked up, you'd take advantage of them. To feel the rush. It was a little easier to taste the high on their breath, but when you're alone for a century, you know when it's going to take a while longer. When you're orphaned, and the only people who take you in are named Crystal and Mary Jane, you know you're getting in too deep.
This is where the government when wrong, when they passed this bill. Maybe they mistook it for another one. Maybe they never meant to pass it. It didn't matter now, I was hooked.
I climbed up on to the granite roof and looked down at the street. No one would see me snort crack when snow covered everything.
Somewhere in the world, someone was jumping off a building. I sat on the
shingles wondering how it felt to get that rush of adrenaline when you fly
like that. I stopped wondering and jumped. I needed one last high, and I figured
the way to do it was to take it quite literally. And bam, I'm in a hospital bed
with an IV in my arm. I'm used to needles by now, so it doesn't bother me.
They kept me on life support in the ICU, until dear old mom couldn't handle it
anymore. I couldn't feel a thing, and quite frankly, I wanted it to stay that
way. It was a little under a day there until I pulled my own plug and collapsed
on the hospital floor. Numbed forever, high forever.
Don't worry about me now, I can't be fixed, solved. I'll just lie here forever
until someone decides it's time for me to go. Even then, this floor will be more
comfortable than six feet under dirt and rocks and gravel and feet. Dead men
tell no tales, so I guess this story ends with me. I guess this goes with me to
my grave. And that's perfectly okay.