Give leeway for my addiction.
Around the witching hour, I commune with the unholy in the safety of my room, windows darkened by woolen blankets to ward off intrusive eyes.
Throughout the day I visualize the gratification I get from each hit I take. Withdrawal symptoms are obvious in the way that I can’t wait to get home for my fix — itching hands and skin filmed with cold clammy perspiration.
I am fixated on doing it. Again. And again. And again.
There is a shallow sense of accomplishment each time I indulge. The hallucinatory fireworks, the evanescent contentment, and the virtual congratulations of nonexistent entities are more than enough to fuel the drive. There may be few others who can understand the rush it gives, and they themselves may not admit to their own addicted selves that they are hooked.
It’s never easy to get to this level. Still, after surmounting all the odds and the dangers Continue reading
I’m purging myself of several traits and thoughtforms that no longer work well. In the process, Metallica’s Until It Sleeps serves well as my head music. Such an old song, and I don’t even exactly remember how it goes; but it’s there looping in my head because one deranged dj left the booth for a tinkle but not before hitting the autoplay switch on — think guitar riffs, wailing leads, pounding drums, slapping bass plus the Metallica hair before Mr. Hetfield decided to go for a cleaner, scrubbed image.
Here’s the lyrics I culled online.
Until It Sleeps (Metallica, ca. 1996)
Where do I take this pain of mine
I run but it stays right by my side
So tear me open, pour me out
The things inside that scream and shout
And the pain still hates me, so hold me until it sleeps
Just like a curse, just like a stray
You feed it once and now it stays
How it stays Continue reading
circles come to close
days of madness cut the chase
pools oiled with distilled me’mries
of yesteryears and stale tomorrows
promises unfulfilled yet unbroken
lies left unsaid truthfully enough
behind musty curtains of longing
they sigh and wait sweet visions
spite for spite or might for might
it matters not at the junction
crossroads leading to crossways
choices ready ripe for picking
days come to close
circles grow mad within limits
yesteryears bathe in pools of tomorrows
mem’ries buried now deep underneath
image courtesy of deathby1000papercuts.blogspot.com.