Hazmat

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I don’t fuck with heroin addicts.

They’re impulsive, egotistical, and lazy. They think they’re special. They don’t listen. And they’re totally incapable of paying attention to anything outside of themselves for more than a few seconds…

And I’m one of them.

—-

Do you remember what it was like before you got sober?

Yes.

Do you hold on to the idea of who you were? What you did?

Yes.

Do you want to get high?

No.

Will you?

Probably.

—-

Powerlessness is knowing that I am going to get fucked up and there’s nothing I can do about it. It’s in my DNA. My body. My mind.

Like a beast or burden that lies dormant waiting to roar.

You can hear it between your ears.

It tells you things about yourself, about the world around you. It reminds you that you’re right, and everyone else is wrong. That you’re smart, when everyone else is dumb. It tells you it can handle itself, that it doesn’t need other people’s ideas, or thoughts, or emotions.

It tells you that you’re too sensitive. That the world is too cold for someone who feels as much as you do, and even if others did feel, they would never fully understand.

And so you sit, and you wait, and you do nothing. And eventually, the beast decides to roar. The rig gets ready to rumble.

Next shot: oblivion.

—-

Power comes from knowing that I’m going to get fucked up.

Knowing that if I don’t do anything, I’m a ticking time bomb.

Like a Hurt Locker with no hazmat suit.

Accepting that this is how I am, this is who I am, and whatever I think I’ve done, whatever I think I’ve accomplished, isn’t shit.

Dust in the wind.

No one knows my experiences and carries them around, so why do I?

—-

Power is saying I don’t know and believing it. And I mean really believing it. Like it’s the lifeline to your life’s essence.

Like you’re an alien baby marooned on a planet floating around a multi-billion megaton ball of heat.

Like your body isn’t your own, sprouted from the earth like a bud seeding oxygen into the atmosphere.

Like your breath is the souls way of saying hello, goodbye, hello, goodbye, hello to the world.

Seeing your plans for the day, all the things you “think” you need to do and saying: “Thy will be done, Not mine” and meaning it. Then calling someone. Cause you’re a sad boy heroin addict who doesn’t know shit.

—-

Magic.

I believe in it cause it’s more fun.

Heaven.

I think about it cause it makes me feel good.

God.

I talk to him because he understands, he doesn’t judge, and I’ll never know if he exists.

I’m not even sure if he’s a dude.

Because anything I believe is a reflection of me and I don’t know shit…

And theres power in not knowing shit.

—-

When I don’t know, I learn.

When I don’t know, I experience things as they are.

When I don’t know, humor happens.

I get to know people. I get surprised. And I get to read long ass Wikipedia entries about Grouse and how much of a menace they are to neighborhood communities in our area.

I get to create things.

This essay, that song, and whichever podcast I’m making about whatever I think I know.

It’s a lot of “me” cause I’m the only person I can confirm without a shadow of a doubt, a shred of evidence, or particle of proof, is completely 110% full of shit.

But you might not be. So I listen, and I wait.

It hurts to wait.

I’m manic af and I always have to be moving…

Unless I’m still, then I’m thinking and that’s not good either.

So I write. I make songs. And I don’t fuck with heroin addicts.

Cause they’re impulsive and they feel too much.

And if I get in their way, if I try to influence or arrange or fix em…

They might not have a chance to make something great

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