The Spaces Between Us

I’m in black dress pants, a white, button-down Oxford-cloth shirt and a tie, black socks, black shoes.  Walking along the river bank, fumbling in my pocket for a pharmacy vial, then spilling it all over the sidewalk, little white sticks flying everywhere.  But when I look down to pick up the spilled contents, I see little green monsters everywhere.  ‘OC’ on one side, flip it over and it says ‘80.’  I’m picking up all I can until my hands are full and spilling over; I fill my mouth and taste that plastic coating.

My eyes open wide, and I realize it’s all been just a dream.  Another drug dream, three dreams in three nights.  I’ve been clean for nearly two months, but still the cravings come in my sleep every night.  Usually my pillow and sheets are soaked in sweat.

No more pain, no more hurt

Just one more shot, and then I’ll be OK, please, just one more shot and I’ll go away.  Voices in my head screaming out for one last fix, but I know better than to play that game again.  My hands tremor and shake, my mind saturated in this feeling of –

no pain

– nostalgic euphoria that I keep returning to despite the cries from my frontal lobe, saying, NO NO NO!  Don’t go there, please, stay as far away as you can!

And the next instant I’m so deep in my own depression that I just want to end this

[pain]

sensory feedback machine in my mind.  Take the pain away.

~ by motokokusanagi on October 29, 2007.