Sometimes it hurts to live
Sometimes when you’re feeling low…I mean real low. This is a level of low no one knows about because the people who experience it don’t talk about it or are too high to even coherently relate it to the alphas and betas of the world. This is the low that somebody in your life, somebody closest to you has put you on the tipping point and your inner demons grabbed you & thrust you in. Your standing in the bathroom lights off. You’re in the shower with the water running. The warmth against your skin is how you equate love to be like. The feeling crack heads, smack addicts, cokeheads, and potheads alike find solace in their drug of choice. Your crying but because you purposely positioned yourself so that the water running down your face hides that fact from your mind. You muffle your cries with your hands so that no one else can hear you. Because if they heard they might become â€œconcernedâ€ and feel the need to tell others how much of a wreck you truly are. Now enters the line of separation, the line that separates you from feeling just low. This line starts with prayers and then a gaining of hope that in this very second that God looks down on you and feels pity that he even created such a bunch of people so selfish that they would make an insignificant drop in the earthâ€™s population, feel so out of place that they want to just die. They want God to take his hand like in the Sistine chapel but instead of reaching out a finger, he throws is whole body into a sweeping motion and picks you out of this world. And now the water runs cold. So you shut it off and wipe your face. You listen to the water drain out of the tub and you wait for that golden silence in between the last of the water being swallowed in and the beads of water dripping off your body and hitting the floor of the tub. Then you look up. To the alphas and the betas thereâ€™s just a ceiling. But to you? There is a little chance there is a God, or a Buddha, or hell even a Satan that is beyond the point where the 2 walls meet the ceiling and he hears your inner monologue and wants to save you from the worldâ€™s destruction. And you wait 30 seconds for him to work his magic. And when he doesnâ€™t, you sigh and start your morning. And if you’re like me that morning starts with a blunt of Californiaâ€™s exotic and a bottle of Nyquil because the dreamland is the real world and the real world is the dreamland.
Or youâ€™re fucking depressed. But fuck that notion. Can you OD on nyquil and weed? I’ve been trying to prove that theory true for the longest. But I always end up the same way. Joint in an ashtray and nyquil on my shirt and drool all over my chin like a rabid animal…and a new day to start the routine all over again.
Sometimes it hurts to live