I have eaten paint. By accident. While musing over something as light and heavy as turpentine, the brush dipping into my opened mouth, colouring the surface of my tongue.
I have gone crazy listening to music. You know, jumping up and down, shaking your head like some spastic idiot. Having the perceivably cool magazine-style wild loose long hair all over the place and covering your face. And the dark black eye-liner and smudged mascara that causes you to look as though you haven't slept for days... Wait a minute, that is true.
And the alcohol. Doesn't matter what or which or how or with who. Some people drink for the exquisiteness and fineness of pleasurable taste. I drink to get high. As quickly as possible. So I can excuse myself for the thrillingly bad things I shouldn't have done but did anyway. For the intensity of sky-rocket intoxication. So you float in outer space and get carried away by the slow rush of this supernatural current all around you and sink into an endless black hole.
And writing. Writing like there is no tomorrow. Writing that I cannot write any more.
Such a desperate need to express myself.
Sometimes it frightens me, the extent that I can go. To feel something more, more, more. To escape. To forget what I'm escaping from. And in trying to forget, remembering it even more.
I often think that there is no difference between a drug addict and I. We are all drug addicts, only our drug varies- addicted to attention, addicted to self-pity, addicted to the past. In the wee hours of the morning we step out of our houses and shiver. We look at the sky. The sky is blue, as blue as a bruise. We fold our arms, rub them hard to keep them warm, and sniff a little and rub our noses and rub our eyes as though we cannot believe that we are still alive. That the world is still the same, seemingly exactly the same, with or without us.
Maybe at this point they dig their pockets and take out their lighters and light up their cigarettes. I light one up in my mind. Ahhh. Release. Breathe out a cloud of smoke of thoughts. Disentangle myself from the loud noises and banging events of the previous hours and fall into the arms of the boy who says, simply, "Hi." Maybe at this point he adjusts his glasses. Peers at me with all his might with his tiny dark eyes. I secretly laugh at the perpetual mess which is his hair. Adorable.
Addicted to the surreality of love. Addicted to the quirky insanity of friends. Addicted to quietness, and everything marvellously unquiet about it.
Hi. Good morning. Even at 2pm, good morning.