ideas with no tangibility;
ideas with irrelevant supports;
ideas without value;
ideas' witlessness;
ideas' witnesses;



2023-09-28 I woke up a little after midnight at my workplace to my coworkers
finishing close. I put my backpack on and scooted out and down the hill to find
the old lookout point one of my former roommates had mentioned once.

The path was blocked by three boulders placed so as to prevent automobile
through-traffic. I walked by them and up the hill through the path. The
streetlight faded behind me and soon I was alone among the dark silence save
for the chatter of the crickets and varied twig-snapping of unseen nocturnal
creatures, the friends of Nowhere, Maine.

I came to a pile of strewn trash among, if it had been warmer, which would have
been flies I suppose and bits of nastiness that are begotten by nastiness.
Hoping this was the only bit decrepid in this desolation I walked further. It
was cold and I was tired so when I saw the needles and blood I made no reaction
even after my slow realization of what had happened there.

It was not a place of honor, there was nothing to be had or found there, and
had I known better I would have fled immediately to avoid the fate that had
befallen what was left of whomever that had found ruin among the brush and
uncaring wilderness. This was the fate of the addict when they find an
apathetic owner of a chainsaw and these were the pieces that, should I chose to
indulge in mainlined drugs, will compose myself as well. Dogs or cats or foxes
or wolves had got to what was left but what had happened was apparent. The baby
stroller and diapers and formula pouches told the rest of the story. I stood
for a while comprehending this mess, processing without being able to process.
Nor it being safe to do so.

My grandmother has no sympathy for addicts though even she wishes they'd get
better and supports the free dispersal of naloxone for those that need it. She
doesn't see why an addict should redose rather than purchase warmth or water,
not to mention inhabit a crack shack rather than find work and hearth and life.
She's smart. She's never looked down drunkenly at an empty bottle or
experienced lethargic purple haze and stupefied daze that accompanies the
shortening of a rolled joint. She's never craved a cigarette like I have. She
couldn't imagine it. She couldn't imagine my knowing the feeling. She can't
answer my questions for her - how sober lukewarm shelter could compare to pure
happiness coursing through a vein, or how hydration could compare to not
needing to care about any need, physical or emotional. Perhaps money can't buy
one love, but there are things a person enjoys more. At least at first.

I've been through the downward spiral slipping from shelter to smaller shelter
like a sieve, looking only for acceptance and a place to sleep and finding
scarce the former and only more expensive the latter while my pay doesn't
increase nearly as quickly as the cost to live. One shot would kill me years
later after hundreds more, perhaps not as directly the first as the last, but
the first would be my death all the same. I know this. The sound ice makes when
it hits water and feels the sharp difference in temperature accompanied by the
whoosh of butane and naked laugh of the crazed fiend hungry for more pleasure,
more solace, a hoard of catharsis never to be experienced, only kept like a rat
keeps food for winter, and the drawing in of the needle and the flick and snap
of the glass and rubber band and push of it in and the mind out and let the
reason bleed out of you in transparent drool and snot and let the eyes droop
and heart swell with unearned passion. As much as it would be my comfort then
it is my recurring nightmare now. And it's not inevitable, because I will make
it out of this hell before it chains me and loses the key.

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