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Someone once said to me, that she felt like every time she loved somebody, that she gave them a piece of her heart.
She said that she felt like once she’d given them that piece, that she could never get it back and she was afraid that someday she’d have nothing left.
That may be true for her.
But for me… I believe something else.
I feel like, Love… is like water.
There’s plenty of it around.
It won’t run out.
You can take it and give it to the people you care about, you can share it, there’s always enough to go round.
Sure, you can drown each other with it.
Sometimes it’s hot and dry and you need it much more than other days.
But it even rains in the desert sometimes.
You can always find some to give to a person that you need to give it to.
And there’s something divine in watching someone else drink, when you are thirsty.
It starts with a cigarette.
Some kid that you know is smoking one, at a train station or in the park.
You want to know what all the fuss is about, so you take it, you inhale it and you cough the smoke all over the place and the kid laughs at you.
So then you’re onto cigarettes.
You’ve had a few sips of booze in your time coz your rowdy uncle slips it to you at family dinners. Maybe you have a glass of wine with a parent from time to time.
But you’ve always been supervised.
Suddenly you’re in a park, ten kids with a dollar each -end up with 4 litres of warm red wine and the kid who stole his mum’s cigarettes is the most popular.
Suddenly you’re making out with the cutest girl there because when you get pissed and say what you really think about life, that shit turns a 13-year-old-girl on like nothing else. And she thinks you’re cool coz you smoke cigarettes.
So then you’re on booze, cigarettes and sex.
And someone hands you a joint or a bong and you inhale it and you cough the smoke all over the place and the kid laughs at you.
But you later end up in bed with his sister so it all works out for the best.
You get to your last few years of school and suddenly people are bringing strange things to parties. The weed is laced and god knows what’s in the pills.
You start drinking more because you need a more consistent temperament to cope with all of the drastic shifts in consciousness that occur between all of the different drugs.
So you’re an alcoholic on drugs, with a-pack-a-day habit to keep up with, you spend all of your money on drugs and booze… but at least you get discounts coz your girlfriend’s brother is your dealer and he feels bad coz he corrupted you in the first place.
And suddenly, you’re a drug dealer.
You learn quickly to divide your shit into two parts, the shit you have to sell, the shit you get to eat. You have to have a case that has compartments because you’re addicted to several different drugs and they all have to be divided into these two piles.
You learn to get the money up front, no debits, because it’s your best friends that screw you.
So you’re a drug fucked businessman, alcoholic, unable to trust your friends.
And you break up with your girl coz she wants you to stop doing drugs… She doesn’t want you to turn out like her brother.
Too late honey. The two of you fucked me up good and proper.
Now you’re a drug dealer, alcoholic, single.
Every chick in the world is gunning for free drugs and giving you blowjobs.
It’s hollow and un-meaningful sex, but dammit, everytime you blow a load in some random slut, you forget your ex a little bit more.
Her brother and you are now rival dealers.
There are fights amongst your friends and you really couldn’t give a fuck because you’ve been mates with him for so long that you don’t wanna think anything of it.
But you’re forced fight his friends.
You’re a drug dealing, sex addicted, alcoholic, streetfighter with absolutely nothing to lose.
It’s the most liberating and most confusing stage of being alive.
You’ve got everything that you want.
But you don’t want any of it.
Some nights you take too much and you have to find booze to smooth it out.
Some nights you just want whatever-her-name-is to get the fuck out of your bed and go home and never, ever speak to you again, and no, you don’t want to hear her poetry because it’s exactly the same as the poetry that gets read to you every time you give somebody an orgasm.
Some nights you end up fighting back to back with some guy that you barely know, but because there’s 6 of them and you’re just glad you got a guy covering your back. You go home with a busted face and broken ribs and have a psychotic episode for a half a week and then you don’t see any of the people involved for months.
Some nights you manage to just smoke a few cigarettes and watch TV without getting into any trouble.
Some nights you cut your wrists or eat a bunch of sleeping tablets, because you hate yourself and you want to die, but you know that you probably won’t die if you try either of these methods.
Some nights you catch up with an old friend and get wasted out of your brain and before you can get around to making out with each other, one of you passes out and it never comes to pass. And you’re glad coz it didn’t complicate things.
Some days you find something else to do with your time.
Some days people talk to you and it’s just for fun and not about drugs at all.
Sometimes you put a cigarette out after a few drags because really, cigarettes are just fucking gross.
Eventually you stop doing drugs because you’re just fucked all the time and it starts to feel like a waste of money because you aren’t feeling anything exciting anymore.
You quit smoking because you just don’t have the urge to buy them anymore.
You drink on the weekends, like normal people do. And at parties and in pubs, not in an alley behind a supermarket.
You start to ‘date’ women instead of just getting trashed and accidentally making physical contact, which just always kinda led to fucking somehow.
You legally earn a quarter of the amount of money you were making from dealing drugs, but it doesn’t matter because you don’t need to spend half as much as you used to, on buying large quantities of drugs.
You have a drink with your rowdy uncle and you feel sorry for him because you know he’s been an alcoholic for a very long time.
Your girlfriend becomes your wife and suddenly you’re picking your kid up from the school park and your kid has red glazed eyes and stinks of booze and cigarettes.
Your wife gets addicted to valium and it sickens you because your mind starts to revert back to the format of being a drug dealer.
Suddenly, you’re in a room at crown, cocaine all over your face, scotch all over the floor and if you punch that whore any more she’s gonna die before you feel pain in your hand.
You bash your kids for having drugs in the house but then you go do the drugs with your wife. She never finds out about the dead whore.
You convert to Buddhism and quit drugs, meditating yourself to a state of bliss and doing yoga at sunrise. You stop eating red meat and refined sugar.
You apply your ‘business skills’ to a legitimate job and make a killing.
Your wife has an affair and thank god because now you’ve got reasonable grounds on which to divorce her.
You become a part-time barfly and sometimes you sleep at work so you don’t have to get up in the morning after a bender.
You see the kids every other weekend and you have a beer with the older one and do yoga with the younger one.
You get a sweet car and start womanizing again and the kids create problems because they like the girl who’s shit in bed and they hate the one who’s a dynamite whore.
You retire and start circling the shows in the TV guide.
You become addicted to prescription drugs coz you can’t stomach booze anymore and the sedatives are just wicked shit.
You have to cut sodium out of your diet and you can’t be fucked doing yoga anymore.
You sit around reminiscing about the good times and bad, hating your kids for not visiting and busying yourself by going to the post office and the bank.
You die of some obscure failure in a bizarre organ and graduate to the purgatory administraton where your destiny will be determined for your next life.
‘Anything to declare?’ says the white light.
‘Nah.’ You say.
‘What is it that you seek for your next incarnation?’ it asks.
‘Oh, whatever…’ you say.
‘Whatever?’ questions the light.
‘Yeah, just don’t let me near any cigarettes.’
They call us crazy.
Why? Because, we are different.
The difference between playful dagginess and psychotic mischief is: One’s feelings operating within the rules.
The old people on the street shouting obscenities, re-enacting wars they have lost, disrupting good-natured folk going about their business… They are people too.
They are too, good-natured folk going about their business.
Forgive them for not working 9 to 5 and drinking on Friday and Saturday.
My schizophrenic friends listen deeply to their imagination.
They are given pills to silence their dreams, not encouraged to analyse and resolve.
In years to come the pills will become scarce and they may be left standing on the street shouting at themselves.
They are not Insane! They are merely tainted and creative.
All people employ different defence mechanisms to reduce stress: denial, sarcasm, cynicism, displacement, self-medication, catharsis, passive aggression…
Those employing introverted, neurotic, realms of mental ‘illness’ are merely deploying their methods of coping with being alive.
Some require more elaborate mechanisms than others.
It is easy for simple folk to judge and to label and to dismiss.
Doctors who employ denial, self-medication and passive aggression… They prescribe with ease.
There is little hope for those labelled crazy.
The family flocks around them and re-iterates ‘You are ill, it upsets us all.’
The patient becomes the bearer of the family’s stress and shame and guilt.
No-one appears from in the shadows and says: ‘You are special.
The doctors are wrong.
You have a vivid imagination, capable of much more than others.
Your own, original set of beliefs, will qualify you to lead.
Embrace who you are and find your place in the world.
Average people do not stand a chance when compared to your capacity for mental prowess, self awareness, self-discipline and understanding of the human condition.
Your pain makes you more capable of empathy.
They call us crazy.
Why? Because we do not behave as we are supposed to.
We do not conform.
Unusual people are labelled ‘abnormal.’
It is imposed that we are all supposed to behave a certain way, to work and to drink and to keep your feelings to yourself and to have a hobby and watch TV and eat 3 meals and sleep at night…
I emplore you, psychotics, sociopaths, schizophrenics alike…
Forgive them for excluding and labelling you, for making you feel different…
Do not hate people and allow your hatred to consume you, forcing antisocialism and crime.
You are special. And it is a secret.
Expectations of civilised society may be imposed on you.
But the world is yours for the taking.
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