A man-skeleton wastes on a couch in a mediocre apartment years before anticipated. An alamode present, fixture placement, surrounded by living room walls and slight furnishings-which tell of misfortune. Old photos, sentiments, home to dust, of intimate embraces hung, or stood, untouched lacking attention for some time. The stench-vile and love-lost was enough to make it a home of malign intention and wasteful subjection.
He is going to die?
I don’t know.
What does he have?
I don’t know, he got an infection…
Well, is it an infection or… something worse?
I don’t know.
What the fuck?!
He deserves it.
You don’t feel bad at all about his situation?
Why? That’s fucking wrong… I mean he is retarded, but it’s not his fault. Well, it is his fault, its just sad. Whatever.
Its his own fault.
What he had put in his arm traveled the course. The course: his whole body, mostly; ranging from his arm direct, through his blood stream to his leg, and then worst of all to his eye. Not the eye. I wonder if he saw that coming? The light that had been burning; the device to vision, had been extinguished in all of its senses for sensation.
The drug was worth it?
I imagine not seeing, rather being blind, having an eye put out, is as not a void of sensation. Having fractured an eye socket and being relatively blind for a month in one eye, I can tell you this is hell.
Waking up at 3 in the morning looking at the clock praying, just praying that you are in a nightmare where you have lost your vision. The terrible thing is the blackness, the other eye reads and interprets data, the impaired eye, the bad eye, sees nothing but blackness. It moves, but it does not function. Only dark.
Imagine waking up, hearing things, knowing your eyes are open but having them only react as they are completely shut. You grab the nearest item and try with all your power to see the object. You can feel the object, and you know what it is, but you, my friend, cannot see the object.
A month ago I woke up blind. I was blind for 10 seconds.
It was just a dream.
My sister told me she had a dream that I became fat.
I had a dream about you; you were fat.
Well, I feel a little fatter, but whatever.
It was funny.
And then she woke up.
The man above lounging in agony, lacking vision, on the couch is not in a dream. His nightmare is his dependence, and the dependence of others. Life is like this for a 20 something lover, substance abuser, and community brother. I have empathy for his situation, but I am also afraid of needles. I have also known people who have died from heroin proper. It is not fun and it is completely avoidable.
This is no dream.
Share your beliefs with those you love. A single word may change their life, or maybe it was just a waste of breath.