UNDERGROUND VOICES: NON FICTION - 03/2012
RC EDRINGTON

SELF-LOATHING

         In absence of windows, I find only mirrors. As shards of fluorescent, fake sunlight slices the darkness and reflects back the emptiness of syringes shattered against a red bricked school yard wall. Perhaps this absence has always been here, yet I failed or chose not to see it thru the thin gauze of these tired heroin eyes. Perhaps this emptiness is but another disease I stumbled upon in some unlit alley like a worn $20 bill...and now it burns a hole in my pocket as I await the cold, sweaty dreams of the next fix. A fix I pray to some frail, unknown god will never find its way into my limp veins.

         I am not high. I am not numb. Yet I pop 10 pills a day to keep this body sucking air. Diabetes. Heart disease. Mood swings. Depression. They have all taken up residence in this poor excuse of a man who dreams of tomorrows that never come, locked inside the four white walls of this "rehab" facility. In the past few years, I buried my contemporary heroes and friends: Joe Strummer, Dee Dee Ramone. It has gotten to the point where I have more friends dead than alive. Somedays I wonder why my corpse was never found among these bodies spent like shell casings in some misunderstood war. Or perhaps I was, and as loser in this macho rock n' roll pissing contest...I was deemed unworthy of notification.

         ...in dope rehab they fail to warn of the 30lb bloated circus dwarf that attaches to your stomach almost overnight. A gut that leaves you looking like the cartoon character of your deservedly dead, yet quite innocent alcoholic father. I want to fold myself into myself and dissapear like some alien foil found at a UFO crash site in the middle of no-fucking-where New Mexico.

         Being clean means I am now free to work meaningless jobs to make cash I can't spend on dope. I am free to fill the empty spaces of my life with the material merchandise that never interested me in the first place. Look mommy, your boy is healthy now. He kicked his dope demon square in the balls. He is now ready to be a good little boy and consume. Here I am America...another fuck-up that knows he is a fuck-up and splatters meaningless verse, like blood from a cheap drive-in slasher flick, across the page.

         I am at constant search for something of value. Something of substance. Something to fill the absence of the love I found at 19 overdosed on a University street corner in the form of an angel ignored by her makers. Love. How un-cool. Un-hip. Love. Anyone who has been in love and lost it knows every person that follows is just a whore...and we pay them in dinners, dates, time or cash. Admit it. We can never be that very first important person in anyones life again. Not even our own. Something gets sucked out if us and leaves this...this...abscence. And how do you propose we fill that hole?

         How am I too live my life if I don't have to walk a tight wire every second of every of minute? I think back to my girls in the hood. The little shorty's that peddled their ass every night so there man wouldn't have to wake up sick. I would take a fucking bullet for those girls (and one time did). They had more loyalty and passion for life in one finger than this middle class female creature that stuffs herself daily with TV and Wal-Mart ever will. If you won't die for someone do you really love them? If your not out their risking your life everyday are you really living? Sure, write this all off as hyperbole and bad prose. It doesn't matter anymore than if I wake or fail to wake tomorrow morning. This absence moves slow, cloud like...and you dearest reader could be next.

         I am not digging on this dope free life at all. Kicking dope is easy. It's the lifestyle that truly sucks you in and refuses to let go. A lifestyle where each day means everything and nothing at the same single moment. A lifestyle that makes the penning of these very words quite absurd...








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