k.
-
It's the dark distasteful mourning that'll get you addicted. That'll creep a way into your chest and bury itself there, that'll crawl into your mind and plague you while you turn and roll over waiting for sleep to come fetch you from the real nightmare here.
It's the white rabbit chasing you in your unconscious that lingers in your eyes, and when you blink you see it flash but when you look again it's gone.
And was it ever really there?
It's the high school craze and you're going with the crowd when you tell your best friend of your mad Cheshire cat dream you had when you were merely a little girl with a white bow and she tells you that you're in a coma. A mad fucking coma and this is all part of your sick mind trying to make itself right. In reality you're 24 and lying in a hospital bed with tubes all down your throat.
The drugs will help you heal, and if they don't then it's just another mind adventure in your already twisted head.
So you dabble in a little of everything and never really let yourself get addicted even when your entire world's crashing around you and the rabbit hole's been filled up with dirt and rubble and the makings of the happy family home. Your sister's moved out now and you hear stories coming down the grapevine about her, what she got up to at high school and why she now goes to college in another state.
And it's fucked up, you know it's fucked up but you can't help but feel glad that every time you're high you're the curious kid again that fell miles down a black hole and landed softly on her butt, you're the curious Alice that followed a white rabbit and you just ran ran ran and drank tea with mad hatters.
Now everyone's a little crazy and you start realizing that maybe you've been doing a bit too much of the LSD but you carry on anyway cause it's your safety blanket and the world's a wonderland when you're not really yourself. And every weekend now you go to your friends place and you smoke and you drink and one of her boyfriends takes out something wrapped in al-foil and lights it up and he tells you heroin isn't as bad as people have said and you inhale and you fall fall fall until you hit the bottom waking up on a brown musky mattress with 12 people whose name you don't even know.
You know this is wrong, you know before every needle jab and every light-up, you know but you can't resist the nothingness of it all. The absolute wholeness you feel lying at the bottom of a black hole, you don't need to search for walls you know there's nothing there, you don't need more; you have nothing which in actual fact is everything.
And it's wondrous.
The loss and blackness and everything, is just wondrous.
Every single problem you face in life, in reality is met with a shiny needle and a cackling laugh of a man in a purple top-hat.
Who ever said that the normal life was the right life anyway?