Suggested Audio Hit:
Queens of The Stone Age Better Living Through Chemistry
I need a hit. First thing in the morning, my eyes are weary, bones aching and entire shell beginning to twitch. I rise awkwardly from my slumber, saunter out to the bathroom to douse my face blanket in icy cold water and take a long, hard look in the mirror. The person I see looking back at me is unkempt, peepers bloodshot to the nth degree and lacking in any normal coloration. I’m tweaking from the offset, gasping for the first hit of the day to alleviate the feeling of self-loathing which greets me this day. Just one hit.
I look away in disgust, collect my bearings and head downstairs for a dose of caffeine. This will help, my body is exposed to the elements and needs something just to defibrillate it from its comatose state. Awake? In a respect, yes. Sixty winks last night and that’s fifty more than I’ve been accustomed to for the past couple of months. My consciousness is tentative as I feel as though one horizontal recline would be all the encouragement the Sandman would need to whisk me away once more.
I remain on my feet, set myself a couple of soft goals to achieve which don’t require any great level of commitment and head downstairs to prepare my morning nectar. Needles, in the back of my head, bustling for attention and determined to be heard. There are no intravenous delivery systems, leather belts or crude piles of scag but my addiction is in full flow regardless. I’m tweaking, every muscle betraying me and screaming its discord at being seven straight hours starved of its favorite narcotic.
A hot beverage supplies clarity of vision as the mist around me recedes. My drug of choice is responsible for shaking me free from my confines this morning as it is every. It cries “Awake” in my ear, reminding me that it is constant and that my first needle of the day is never far away. That solitary word is ample to stave off further slumber and I am thankful for this. My shell has taken a number of jolts over the course of the past two months or so and gone are the days where I run the show.
If I gave it an inch now it will invariably take a country mile, preservation has become its last line of defense and it is prepared now to take matters out of my hands in order to ensure my passage through another day. Each day I wake is a good day, it could’ve thrown in the towel by now but my heart still beats in my ribcage every time I awaken. I’m thankful for this, despite feeling as though drowning in quicksand in my immediate environment, I get to spend weekends with my beautiful boy and that is great fucking motivation not to take that final slumber.
It is the needle which keeps me game-faced, I see it glint and watch its honey slowly escape down one side as it preps to sink into my pelt. The narcotic of my choice is overwhelmingly benign, has no intention of lowering my resolve and instead works on lifting my spirits. As its effects wear off, it is always on hand to supply a further hit. The human body has a marvelous way of building resistance but no amount of needles can lessen its impact. All they do is to encourage the high, make me believe in who I am and what I am attempting to achieve with my life and empower me to use my own God-given tool-set to make this so.
Each needle gives my soul a hug, tells me I’m worthy, smiles knowingly and informs me that it understands. I miss that feeling…the instance when another truly knows of your plight and not only from their own contorted perspective. Needles know the rub of the green, no need to relay reams of update as to my personal anguish, it simply nods and gently tells me that everything is going to work out just fine.
My path has been thorny and even now, outside of my immediate locale, certain souls make woefully misinformed judgements on my character. This drains my resolve or, at least, it did. Now it is water off a mallard’s spleen and not because I don’t care…but because I can’t. You see, I will never be that person. The person who feels necessary to constantly explain my motives. I’ve spent four months trying to do that with my ‘nearest and dearest’ and it falls on deaf ears.
If I waste any further time trying to make others understand when, in actuality, my prose gives fairly astute insight into me every day, then I am taking my eye from the prize. No more…not again…been there…and done that. I choose forward and not reverse as my chosen shift. Anybody who truly wants an answer to any question simply has to ask it. Other than that, I say this…and I say so with unswerving eye contact. My conscience is clear.
If you know me, if you believe in RoG and its power to empower, if you see somebody more beautiful in the mirror than you did before its emergence…then you trust me and every intention I’ve got. It’s as simple as that. I have spent much time explaining, apologizing for myself and taking my eye from the prize and every time I do so, that’s a few precious moments out of my sanctuary. Within my confines, and they are often reclusive, I can go to work like Vic Frankenstein.
Each time I vanish, every day when my name doesn’t appear on a feed, I’m concocting vials of Honey. I work twenty hours a day, although my weakened state has pushed this to eighteen more recently. Keeper’s all about the Chemistry, blew myself up in Physics and found Biology more turn-on than enlightenment. Chemistry, on the other hand, made sense. All those currents flailing around touching neurons, they all make perfect sense.
Better Living Through Chemistry
I’m a chemist by trade concocting and crafting
been worth the neglect its been worth all the fasting
Bunsen ablaze and tripods are manned
Gauze on all fours and chemistry planned
Components, compositions the sweetest transitions
I’ll say this just once to avoid repetition
I’m blinded by science and sick of compliance
There’s no shrinking violets on the shoulders of giants
Marching forth, on my course tapping gold through via morse
All the time it’s the needles which provide me this source
As I brew up these vials devise these designs
Right angles fandangle as opposed to blurred lines
No edges in sight open fields bearing crop
No shackles confines, or reasons to stop
Better living through chemistry ’tis the way of your Keeper
I am true and sincere as the needle sinks deeper
The majestic Chuck D of Public Enemy once rattled off “crucifixion ain’t no fiction” during one of their killer jams and I can honestly state that addiction is just as factual. I’m an addict, a slave to the rhythm, a whore to the needle. I would be bird food by now if I hadn’t taken my meds over the past eight weeks. They have no street value and do not comprise of depressants masquerading as the anti.
I get high as motherfucker’s motherfucker without once compromising my well-being. I’m sheltered by my narcotic, it respects and protects, never judging or goading. And what is this wonderful drug of which I refer you ask? It is whatever you need it to be. We are all addicted to something, whether sex, drugs, rock and roll or coffee and cigarettes. I’m hopelessly addicted to living, breathing and persisting and needles have me hooked right up.
Sin while you can,
Keeper of the Crimson Quill
Copyright: Crimson Quill: Savage Vault Enterprises 2014