Razors scratching my face, whips lashing on my skin, freezing under the icy blanket and drowning on my snowy mattress. I felt like the homeless person lying on the edge of the street, covered with his precious newspapers, trying to forget the grim surroundings that possess him; maybe, just maybe he feels home again, safe under a roof away from the horridness he has to go through.
I slept feeling there was a gun aimed at my head, with God placing one bullet in the barrel and spinning it, holy Russian roulette executed to my advantage, or is it really to my advantage? I hold my legs with both my hands, and images of me being chased by a pack of frenzied wolves’ runs wild, with the sweat trickling down my forehead, and my body shaking with despair. That’s how it feels after the euphoric heroin Mecca journey. After the withdrawal ended, my corpse felt as light as a feather, with every bone in my body as fragile as a toothpick, with my body in its usual fetus position.
I think it has to do with my unconsciousness. I want to be reborn again, rid of this disease. I want to be reborn again, as a normal person, being held by my mother all over again, and embracing the beauty of life, because there’s no beautiful sight like seeing a mother holding her newborn child.
A nightmare worse than any nightmare. This is what I see almost every night in my dreams. You know, there’s nothing worse than quitting something, than the actuality of it remaining to exist in your head. You feel clean, but you don’t. You feel fine, but you don’t. It’s a never ending equation of misery and suffering, even after the merely pathetic, rugged life I was living. I thought change was certain…
—
I was wrong.
You never escape, and you never quit. You will always feel the poison, seeping and leaking through your veins and through your pores. It is truly a curse.