Volume X: The Industry of Chemical Artistry - or - The Age of Rockism

Part 1: I am. Lost. // 1. A Treason

You know what one of the worst tragedies is, at least, in my mind?

Slamming the cover on the piano player’s fingers. When he breaks the hands that play music that is gorgeous beyond words. I think that’s the worst crime in the world. That’s it.

That’s why it was so hard to explain to people why I did drugs.

“You’ve got such a creative mind, and you’re killing brain cells left and right. Why?”

And I couldn’t tell them. I didn’t know. I didn’t care either. I just wanted this to go away. I wanted to get away from the now. I wanted to live in the never. I wanted to just float on and never be real and never be impossible.

Then again, I was dying to be real. I was dying for this.

We’re all dying. We’re all mad here. This is the middle of nothing.

Slam.

Did you hear the bones break - the joints all come undone?

Can you feel this?

The silent tear sliding down a flawless face, paying the price of grief and tragedy. This is now. This is where I am. Why, I’m not certain. But this is now. I turn the music up louder and try to drown out what’s already milling in my mind. If chemicals can’t get rid of it, the music has to. Otherwise, divert attention to something more interesting. Art. Guys. Whatever it takes.

Slam. There’s the crash of the keys, the fingers ceasing to function.

This is my life. This is my condemnation. This is my punishment for not caring and letting things slide. This is my damnation for caring too much and trying too hard. Either which way, no matter what, you’re always screwed.

After awhile, you get tired of being screwed.

So you fuck the system instead. Life’s just a huge cycle of fucking. Over and over.

I’m here in this moment because I have nowhere better to be at the time. I’m here because I have to be. Because I had the misfortune to be born. I’m a starving artist in a time of change, just like all others. We’re all starving here. The world is full of people plagued by hunger. But we’re all starving for different things.

I’m an artist starving for a soul.

A heart. A clear conscience. I’ll take anything I can get. Anything at all, I’m not all that picky. You’d be surprised how quick your standards lower themselves when the resources are low. You learn to just...deal. That’s the secret to survival. You just deal with it. You put one foot in front of the other and keep going.

I had my fingers broken, theoretically. It was more that my mind was broken. It was more that I refused to see possibility. As much as I denied reality, it was all I had. And I learned to make the best of it. There’s no use for hope or dreams, they’re just put to waste when you really think about it. This is now. This is what you’ve got. What you can do is what you have to work with. Your abilities are what you’re born with. There’s no two ways about it. Fuck all else. It’s not important in the slightest. Just let go. Let. Go.

I never stayed in a constant relationship because it takes effort - it takes caring. Mind you, I tried it a few times, but it always fell through. I had a much easier time letting go. It was just that much simpler to walk away and feel the wind against your face, the sun on your back, than it was to stand in the pouring rain and drown. I was sick of being buried alive. I was sick of dying that little bit more every day for someone else. Fuck that. I’d live my life how I chose. I’d make and break my own rules. Why? Because I could. I didn’t need any better justification.