there is a past that lives,
and it haunts.
It is an inner bullet,
cocked and ready to be used,
for any occasion that suits...
Apart from the somewhat real world I try to live in day to day, the serene scene I purposely abstract in my melon is somewhat of a fuel for my real chaos. The truth I grasp and disregard. The hate, the pain, and the embarrassment I passionately sort, file and manage for future use. I fall into a sort of dream meditation. Everything is melting away around me, everything about me is soaked in doubt and pity. I allow this emotional binge to occur as I melt away on the sour smelling sheets of my coffin size bed. I sizzle inside myself because I am willingly flipping a switch, denounces all normal inhibition to heal from any mental pain. I collect any self depravity for an occasion such as this to use against myself, to destroy myself. After therapy I am a roller coaster of thought and reminiscing revenge against any real part of my true self. My past walked right through a door I unlocked and cracked open slightly.
I was back in high school. Where sabotage was a defining word in this shitty confusing time. I was unheard of until this wonderful year. I was a whisper slowly fading. Now I found a way to make these peers that crawl around me day after day, imitating, devouring and clicking together without me, to swarm aggressively towards me. I purposely became friends with an outcast named Devon. He intentionally slapped a head lock of a sort on me, metaphorically speaking. Devon figured me out. My generous nature glistened in his eye. I was a loan for a good time. Or maybe he got a good laugh out of my antics occasionally, but nothing else. I was also lost and searching for something at that moment. It was obvious to anyone with some intelligence. Devon wasn’t stupid.
He introduced me to the true meaning of the word binge. At the time, the experimentation, the newness of it was exhilarating. It was an overused adolescent rebellion which I embraced. I didn’t budge under Devon’s grip. The different buzzes from different assortments of drugs and quantities of alcohol consumed in as many nights as I could became my goal. I was introduced to a world and a lifestyle that would quickly get attention. It was hard to ignore my carelessness. It was hard to devour yourself without it being noticed by the meaningful ones. I was belting out intentionally, but indirectly. I was screaming load, but not clear.
I was on the floor and seemed to be laughing. "You all have to get the fuck out!" I heard from the crowd of people that seemed to be standing over me staring and laughing wildly. Some faces stared shockingly. My eyes blurred then focused. My head seemed to melt and re gel into some sort of sanity. "Leave! Get him the fuck out!" Was the reoccurring phrase of the night. The reality of the moment. I didn’t give a shit. I plummeted into this night in the back of a rusted out, old green and red beatle. One hand loosely held a bottle of cheap vodka with the label soaked off. In the other hand I violently gripped a multicolored pipe filled with what seemed to be a premium marijuana. My hands were full so my green was lit by some guy who sat next to me in the back seat. Did I know who this guy was? No. And I didn’t give a fuck. He was a friend of the night and he was helping me in the direction I wanted to go. Three hours later I vaguely spotted his laughing face hovering over my fallen body as I composed myself. I managed to grab a hand from the crowd as my sticky leather jacket peeled from the linoleum. "How long was I lying there?" I thought to myself. I stunk of vodka and cigarette smoke. I stood up and looked around as people walked away laughing and muttering. "What a god damn train wreck" I heard from wandering drunk spectators. I looked down at my pants and my right leg was soaked with something alcoholic. I was plastered well. I was holding onto the refrigerator door for support as it came flying open to spew beer bottles all over the floor. More laughter. More taunting. I love it. I seek it. I chuckle a booze chuckle. I grab for something non alcoholic to quench my normal thirst. Devon tosses me a bottle of what looks to be lemon lime soda. I hold the bottle to my face. It drains into my gullet wildly. As wild as the laughter which grows with every gulp. It burns. It burns from carbonation. No it burns from unnatural consumption of what I slowly realize is straight vodka contained in the safety of what should have been soda in my bottle.
Thrown to the door by a grouping of hands. Familiar face all around and laughing. I am in and out. My head explodes wildly and disgustingly. No thoughts of meaning. I am out into the cold, away from the late night booze cult. I want to walk. My house is not too far away. I think the next street up. So I walk. I don’t get too far when I feel someone grab me and pull me into the back seat of a rattling car. Im in the back seat of the shit beatle. Devon is sitting next to me laughing a laugh of what reminds me of a burn out. "You aren’t walkin’ man. Who knows where you’ll end up" he blurts out. He mutters other things. I grasp nothing. Not two seconds later I am rolling out of the backseat. Standing in the middle of the dead end that stretches too two acres of weeds ten feet behind me. Im spinning, but can here clearly the electrical sound that buzzes from the street lamp that towers over the black dead end. The squealing of the bugs tires as it races around the corner seem so natural. "It might take off." I think to myself. Those doors might part into wings, looking so unmechanical at the time. My mind is defiantly gone. This night has been rubbed out. I walk up the incline of our cracking driveway, slip and catch myself in the damp bushes. It should have hurt. It doesn’t. I bust through the front door. Dogs yapping. I walk through the kitchen. I form some sentences that I think make sense to my mother who lays on the couch. I don’t think she lays with my father in there bedroom anymore. I fall to my room in the basement. Not knowing how I managed to scramble through the dark cave containing a pool table in front of my room door at the end of the basement. I get to my bed fully clothed, turn on the television and spin out to some late night talk show host.