You remember the poem about Solomon Grundy? Born on Monday ... dead on Sunday?
I forgot how it all went. Handily enough, I have a new take on a certain Solomon Grundy of mine: Born on Tuesday, doped to the gills all the way, OD'd on Sunday, died on--surprise, surprise--Tuesday.
Please, judge me not too harshly for being unsympathetic. It boggles my marbles when an intelligent young man decides to throw all he had going for him for the sake of a few extra milligramme of liquid high. I hoped it was worth it. I hoped his life--what it might have been, what he could have achieved if he wasn't so out of it--flashes before his eyes. I doubt if he was lucid enough but I hope to all that is holy he suffered. Like how his family and friends suffered.
Like those people who picked up the slack--keeping mum about his whereabaouts, helping him through his withdrawal. People who helped him to the toilet when he could barely make it past his filthy, stinking bed.
Is this what it's like in the middle of a hurricane? Standing in the middle of a deceptive calm while everything spins out of control.
Who was it that was spiralling out of the centre? Was it him, or was it us all along?
Did we try too hard to tether a fey spirit, did we smother it with our concern?
It was a life marked by sadness. Not his, for he was laughing and cackling away when we tried to slap him to his senses. No ... he was having too much fun to stop.
Well ... it finally stopped for him. And we're left to pick up the pieces.
Again.
I forgot how it all went. Handily enough, I have a new take on a certain Solomon Grundy of mine: Born on Tuesday, doped to the gills all the way, OD'd on Sunday, died on--surprise, surprise--Tuesday.
Please, judge me not too harshly for being unsympathetic. It boggles my marbles when an intelligent young man decides to throw all he had going for him for the sake of a few extra milligramme of liquid high. I hoped it was worth it. I hoped his life--what it might have been, what he could have achieved if he wasn't so out of it--flashes before his eyes. I doubt if he was lucid enough but I hope to all that is holy he suffered. Like how his family and friends suffered.
Like those people who picked up the slack--keeping mum about his whereabaouts, helping him through his withdrawal. People who helped him to the toilet when he could barely make it past his filthy, stinking bed.
Is this what it's like in the middle of a hurricane? Standing in the middle of a deceptive calm while everything spins out of control.
Who was it that was spiralling out of the centre? Was it him, or was it us all along?
Did we try too hard to tether a fey spirit, did we smother it with our concern?
It was a life marked by sadness. Not his, for he was laughing and cackling away when we tried to slap him to his senses. No ... he was having too much fun to stop.
Well ... it finally stopped for him. And we're left to pick up the pieces.
Again.
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