i will never forget. God won't allow me to. one crucial memory: the first time i climbed into my crypt of creamy, powder-white pills: willingly yet unknowingly.that night was epic. (like the first time i witnessed this one tall, white boy bust out the crip walk to parallel yet, balance out my dance moves. face off: without a doubt) it was the first time chris and i had spend a night together in my house. greg & a friend were there with us for most of the night. being young, having fun: with not a worry in our mind and not a care for anything in the world except for the here and the now. anxiety at this point in time was just an "idea". it didn't really exist within me, or really anyone else close to me. pills, smoke, drink, snort, party, slang, dance, spend and just let it all go. that night though, is still a bit blurry. i reminisce and can only recall bits & pieces of that first experience. i remember sitting at my "round table", looking around to each and every individual divulging in sin with me. fuckin' scratchers. there was this uncontrollable urge to just itch, and itch, and itch some more. their skin was so irritated and deformed looking. i later found out (the hard way) that this unfortunate characteristic would follow certain people sitting at that round table of mine that night. it would creep and crawl with them through the dark evenings of life, and never leave. the sad thing is: they can't even see that they too, are contaminated, in their own way.
the next morning my eye lids shifted: time for a show. chris got up to leave. pretty awkward. he threw himself out of my bed in a total rush to get out the door - into his space ship. a quick get-away from "abuela drive" was all he could think about. i really think he believed: "maybe if i go quick enough, no one, NOT EVEN GOD, will see what i have done here; what her and i have both done." two terrible transgressions: all wrapped up into one fabulous & euphoric evening. bad little boy and very bad little girl. it really stings when you love the sins you do. upon "crip-walk christopher's" departure, i had time to reflect. i was so clouded. if i could have hammered into my own skull, i probably would have; just to relieve the pressure that had built up inside over the last 24 hours. it was eerie. the feeling you get when you walk into a funeral home. the night BEFORE the funeral and the family has the viewing of the deceased. laying in that gorgeous, black, sleigh bed of mine - alone, and subconsciously knowing that this was the beginning of the end. i swear, it was as if a drill press had made love to my entire body. abstract markings that began from the top of my skull & ventured all the way down to my thighs - or general region.
three years later and what began as my "crypt of creamy, powder white pills" ended as my very own black tar pit. one day i sat back, looked down, and couldn't actually believe where i was sitting and what i was doing. fallen from grace. if i tried to stand, all i could see were the trails i had paved with nothing but my own lips, and maybe a half broken pen (tutor occasionally). the mirrors reflected pure wickedness. the face staring back at me screamed: exhausted, bored... w e a r y. today, my pens are some of my post prized possessions. it soundly defeats my heart every time i think about these historical moments through my addiction. once upon a time: i would murder my post prized possessions: my mind, my body, my career, my family, my friends...
and all those paradisaical, PERFECT pens.
Wisdom 3: 1-6
just a little something that i'm working on :)
© by the gypsies travels