Posted: March 8, 2014 in Drugs/health/life
Tags: , , , , , , ,


You wake up early with a burning desire for your addiction, as if you hadn’t spent most of the night previous hopelessly devoted to it.  Every waking second you spend with it, if not in action then in thought.  How have you allowed it to conquer your life so?  How have you allowed all your other interests to fall by the wayside and to let this infection inundate your very being?

Your life is now an empty shell of itself.  Was there a time before this beast took the reins of your life?  You wish to talk with others about this but they simply wouldn’t understand.  They couldn’t understand unless they too have fallen under such a spell as this.  You procrastinate from your duties; allow others to pick up your slack while your mind prepares itself for the next fix.  A fix with the inevitable reprieve that cycles endlessly until you become little more than a shell of your former self.

The symptoms are the worst part, insomnia being the forerunner in your collection of ailments.  You don’t know if it’s the direct cause or caused by your mind running wild for it, but lying awake there at night you hardly breath, trying to convince yourself sleep is better than your drug.  An hour spent resisting, then two.  You know that just a taste would instigate the inevitable shaking, heart palpitations and chilling sweats that cause sleep to be little more than the dreams it would attempt to incite.

This drug is beyond the potency of any you’ve indulged in before.  At the time of consumption, you cycle through a racing heartbeat, chills, highs so high and lows bringing you to the edge of despair.  They never warned you of this obsession.  The one-sided account on the topic dealt with goodness and wholeness, purity that exalted the user to be on level with philosophers and kings.  If only they could see your thirst for it now.

It’s not a waist but a gain you say: the time that your addiction has appropriated from your life.  If not but the pleasure that pursuing it brings to your existence.  It’s not as if you need an intervention but that others just don’t understand the strength and satisfaction of such a pull.

It’s close you say, you can feel yourself coming to the unavoidable and humbling end to this epoch of your life.  The euphoric conclusion and a very real satisfaction that you have finally overcome your desire to continue.  And then you turn the final page on the addiction for the last time.

The literal page.  The novel that has engrossed your being, daylight to long past sundown has been conquered.  The satisfaction is bittersweet as your very being yearns for another such world to consume the void the previous has vacated.

Happy reading.

Okay, so I know that post was somewhat backwards but I’ve honestly had more of the aforementioned thoughts while reading a book than I’d care to admit.  I’ve endured the panic of not being able to engage the world for more than the length of the book I’m reading.  That is the sort of book I want to write some day; a book that completely captivates and grips the reader, allowing them to disengage from the world and become immersed in another.  I wonder, how many others have felt that way about a book?


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