take me to your leader ·
30 August 04

The cocaine has affected me in a manner I didn’t expect. I came home from a train journey I can only explain as every negative moment in my life condensed in to an hour capsule that I swallowed and it presented me with an imaginary train journey.

I am dying, so hard and so quick. You can argue the cathartic isolation I feel is a direct result of the many lines of coke I vacuumed up my nostrils. It isn’t the coke, the coke was a catalyst for the incremental nightmare that I am currently enduring, and trying to avoid to in order to stay alive.

Coke for me became a blocker, a way to relax my mind. Weed did this, then stopped. Acid did this, and then stopped. Everything did this, including coke. I have super tolerance to illness and drugs. Which is why I avoid pharmaceutical drugs, because I know eventually it will stop working and the virus returns stronger. Call me paranoid, but I always felt this, and it has happened. Now we have super bugs which drugs can’t cure.

Unlike those dickheads, my paranoia has kept me alive perhaps. Or at least sane. The depressing reality is the coke wouldn’t last, and eventually I would reach that crossroad. Where I was once using coke for fun, and release it is now circumvented a quite vehement death I had kept quiet.

With or without the coke, I would have reached this point. I left completely happy, content and a silent euphoria that awakened my mind. Yet it’s opened doors I’m not ready to open, doors I have tried to avoid. After such a weekend that made me feel good, the three days of not sleeping would inevitably cause a cataclysmic reaction. Sleep is important and I can’t enough as it is. Perpetuated perhaps by a moment of happiness, I let the bastards in my head loose.

I cannot be happy, and will never be. I accept this. My desperation of hope and escape from the terror that easts my existence extended to thinking

“I love this kid. I love my brother, and I care so much about him.” and I asked him for a hug. He gave me a hug, and it meant nothing to me. It gave me no hope, no feeling of comfort, no recourse from this agonising death that was chasing me. I looked at him again and thought, “Waste of fucking space”.

I realised my thoughts had betrayed me. Pretending to give me hope, when there was none, only to watch me realise this and then laugh in my face. The heart I have is not real, a fallacy fomented to co-exist and to be tolerated. I have no heart, only a chasm of darkness in which hell itself wold dare not go. In contrast, going to hell would be a like winning the lottery.

How long I can write for, I don’t know. I wrote on a pad designed by disabled monkey’s for blind rodents. On the one hand I want to write. This fucking existence is useless. A moment of reflection and of my friendships has turned into a reality without a silver lining or a light at the end of the tunnel. All the doors are open, and the demons come to pray upon my flesh, hunger resides within them, as they watch for me to fall.

The biggest pain is not having dealt with anything whatsoever through my entire life. I don’t want to die, I just never wanted to exist. What would be the one thing you wish you could change in your life. I wish I was not born. Which one is talking, and which ones are silent?

Split personalities show themselves as individuals within on person, each existing and aware of the other, but only appearing one at a time. This is not me. Instead I feel like shattered mirror, with pieces lost and forgotten, and no way to put myself back together, This mirror is forever broken, and the personalities have not split, but been fragmented and shattered and left to fight it out with each on who will be the dominant.

[zz93]

I have no family. I have no family. I have no family. Not one person who is related to me in any way, shape or form can even comprehend how I feel or what I have become. All my life, family has molded me to become something else: a prehistoric, backward slave.

Do you know how it feels to be molded by different people through your entire existence? An entire lifetime that was forged through conditioning. I was brainwashed into something, what came away was a destructive monster. I am an animal. I am a liar, a cheater, a betrayer, everything you can hate and despise and far more beyond that you can imagine.

When I gained sight, I was blind
When I heard sound, I became deaf
When I felt love, I accepted hate
When I had movement, I became crippled
When I thought, I became a slave
When I was born, I died

I am the corpse amongst the living

On a happier note, it was good to shower after two days of pretty fucking amazing coke. The feelings as I said were calm, high and focused. I wasn’t happy as much as I was content and at peace with myself. I guess my mind was in a neutral mode. Good company makes all the difference. Honestly if I took this with dickheads, I would have had a complete downer, and wanted to rip heads off or just dug in to people with a couple of blades. Instead it was a fucking good laugh, and nice hedonistic-lite experience.

We don’t need drugs to be happy the yell. We don’t need drugs to have fun. But you haven’t tried it, you wanker! We we haven’t jumped off a building, and we know that’s not fun. How the fuck do you know? How many 50 storey buildings have you leaped off and survived? What’s that? None? So you can’t honestly say that jumping off a building is not fun. and you can’t say that while falling the jumper didn’t think it was fun, or felt a release, or felt an adrenalin rush or some form of euphoria?

“There is no other creature like a human being. Even wolves would not prey on each other, but humans will eat each other alive”

If everyone could jump and survive it would be a fucking Olympic sport, and people would get bored of it pretty quickly. Just because your narrow, Neanderthal teachings cannot comprehend something that perhaps, by some fucking miracle of science, god or whoever or whatever that we all happen to fucking individuals someone might be able to actually fucking enjoy it, even if you can’t.

Drugs work for most, there’s a chemical reaction in the brain, it works, so don’t say it doesn’t and don’t say it doesn’t make things fun, because it fucking makes a bad day good, it makes dickheads invisible and it makes things feel alive. Drugs work in moderation, you alcoholic, Friends obsessed, cigarette smoking, anal fucking bastard.

After all this animosity, I felt pretty good. It was all a release, and in fact it was a better high afterwards. I watched 26 episodes of a program, one after another, non-stop as my room was being fixed with a new window. It looked like hell in there.

I began to see trails as I moved my hands. The room began to move, hell even the TV shifted left and write a few times. I had a short conversation with someone that wasn’t there after I finished talking, and then I felt an amazing fucking high. I was buzzing, alive, energised and ready to drill some holes in a wall.

Coke is good in moderation. Just don’t take it on a bad day. Next stop Heroin (just kidding you moralistic moron).