I wrote this 2016, before I seriously started writing again. I don’t know if it’s any good, but it is interesting.
March 29 2018 was my last day, and, knock on wood, I will reach two days free from Demon Opium.I am going to share these ‘prior to quitting’ writings off and on for this month. When I wrote this, I was two years away from freedom and deeply unhappy. The depths of addiction is a strange place to live. You do and say things you, cross lines that you swore you would never cross.
You are owned by the Demon, and you are deep in a tunnel of despair. Physically nonfunctional your brain drifts and you have a lot time contemplate the universe and scribble down the words of a mad man. Insights? Maybe, though I prefer to call it a look into a place worth looking at. If just to look back in fear, those words from the botton of the well are frozen memories.
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LOOPS IN ETERNITY AND AN ITINERANT SUBCONSCIOUS
Jay R. White
October 17, 2016
He put on the music not so much as to have something to listen to, but so he didn’t have to hear his own head listening to him. Time passed or it didn’t in its own relative way. He was at once within and outside of himself. He reopened his book to the line where he had left off, ‘Bad news coming, thought Winston’ and started to read, but his mind drifted off.
He was taken away to a place nearly thirty years earlier. The day after he had left home. He had awakened on his girlfriends parents couch, only half aware of where he was. He lit a Winston and leaned back as the local FM radio purred ‘The Rain Song’ somewhere in the background.
The memory was of such strength that he could smell the stale cigarettes and musty carpet. He could hear the slight patter of rain on fallen leaves on a Portland fall morning. He distinctly remembered asking himself, “What do I do now?”.
Then he was back, book in hand, music still playing. His coffee had grown cold and written on the yellow legal pad next to him was this:
Insanity is what happens when the subconscious decides to not play by the rules.
Like Winston Smith reading the words ’DOWN WITH BIG BROTHER’ written in Winton’s journal, he did not recall writing those words. Those terrible, troubling words. Words that would certainly give others pause.
Perhaps, he thought, he should take a pill. Thirty years earlier he would have solved the problem by smoking a joint. Avoiding the hard truths about his own psyche was something he was adept at. Somewhere within the rage at the question, “What do I do now?“, he knew there was no answer. Still he questioned the universe’s most difficult proposition.
Not knowing what else to do, he picked up the legal pad and began writing:
He put on the music not so much as to have something to listen to, but so he didn’t have to hear his own head listening to him.