We Make Our Own Beds

before we try before we allow the sycophantic ideas on reality saturate our thoughts on freedom why not lets finish the drink, or pack another bowl, lets try a new pill and start over and maybe make a new and different criticism, one that allows for, lets say, eccentricity. lets make another attempt at a formula for science fiction, lets let replace apparent non fiction with maybe an uncommon possibility, or an uncommon philosophy... et al. why not leave space for a sublime or absurd? we stand, knowing or not, with some six billion and were told, trust it or not, that there is a norm, regardless of point. we each have a job or a role or some part to play. as if this place werent so complicated. as if each time we pass each other unknown on any street, why cant we realize were not just the center of our own universe, but maybe a bridge, or maybe the missing link to some greater idea. like there isnt a life and a problem,
a monster that the other is facing. so maybe we should stop, and look at the other faces on the bus as more than faces, as maybe, people too, with, who knows, a new and different philosophy?     i had decided earlier on that the only contact i needed was the one who had a key, the one who supplied, the one who had agreed to empty my house of all substance, of all incrimination, in case i didnt wake up. he would be the one i relied on to destroy the evidence, in case i didnt wake up. but all the abuse ended when the end became actual possibility. ive known the repetitive self loathing of never again, mid high, promises to various deities, when haphazard too much is too much. when i hate myself for dosing, but still waking in the
morning to the same silence, same boredom, suddenly sober. the drug was more dependable, more loyal than anyone i knew, but id never known anyone who tried to kill me. so there i lay,
setting every alarm at ten minute intervals, watching documentaries on the rain forest, begging for another chance. some orchids can grow without ground, tiny gardens filtered from the wind and clouds, a hundred feet up, roots never touching true soil. flowers that bloom once, and wither away, but still dutifully fulfilling the task they were made for. i told myself, the birds are free, yet they stay, but the birds are scavengers, what does that mean for me? ive never been so scared, so cliched, paging through every experience, seeing myself as the dark eyed
addict id refused to see before. at some point a body has to be fed to a point of no further feeding, when said body reaches saturation, a point where equilibrium just cant be sustained. when some kind of definition of normalcy is passed on by and any idea of control is simply failed.
    but finally the lids lost their weight and there i was, clear and in the mirror, trying to pinpoint the time and place where id lost my innocence, as if it meant something, everything to know. like if i could put my finger on it, it would make all the difference. at some point id become lost, somewhere i had lost. at some curve or at some drives end, i had become other than myself. maybe had let forget what it was to be anything more than this. i had allowed to forget the idea i couldnt be something other than nothing. had excised the idea that every day my neck would lose a few degrees of rotation with experience, that all i could feel, that everything i felt would be better, if not better than easier experienced through any other medium than sober. and finally that morning, even with the landscape outside the window echoing every yesterdays,  this morning was different. different like it hadnt changed, but maybe i was different. like maybe what lies i had always told werent lies anymore, like when i called my
mother i could feel her voice like arms, and like the idea of another lonely day was a challenge not just an excuse. like maybe i wanted it more, the day that is. like maybe all the purpose and
meaning i needed was simply to try again. whats worse, to regret doing, or to regret having never done? ive spent the last seven years in haze, im only two months and six days clean, but ive started dreaming at night, and i no longer worry about not waking up.
freedumb freedumb
22-25, M
May 12, 2007