Apartment 2 Room #310

I love you!

Yes I do!!!

No, I really like you!!!

These and similar sentences run through my mind as I sit in this dark room cursing myself. In a moment, I know, in a moment I shall have crushed this lump of grass and then I shall leave this world for a moment in heaven, an expensive heaven. But then again, heaven is supposed to be costly isn’t it?

I shan’t bore you with more rhetoric, I know you are here to listen to my story and I don’t want to confuse you. But then again, what else do you expect from a junkie?
See, I did that again, I never had control over myself even when I was always in my senses, now at least my habit gives me an excuse to lose my control.

So, I am here sitting in this dark room, watching myself, an art that I had honed to perfection. I will sometime stare at that wall, trying to discern between the patches that have the paint on and the other which are bare-a task that is absurd in the flickering candle light. I will then direct my attention to the mechanized motion of my hands to check, and happy at clockwork efficiency of crushing, separating and rolling the grass, I will look away. My hands, once sinewy and strong, are now just a thin layer of skin stretched over equally thin bones- but who cares as long as they serve their purpose. As long as I have strength enough to roll another.

Bored again, I will start searching for something to focus my attention upon, but I know I will soon lose interest in that too.

I sometime laugh at the state that my once “acute” and “…”- oh what the heck that word is-mind has been reduced to. However I have realized that these things don’t matter.

People call me names behind my back. I often hear whispering of how I have destroyed myself, how I am a pathetic loser, a vermin who wallows in a sorry world of drugs. Ha! If only they knew the truth.

That fucking window- a gust of wind and it springs open. I shall remember to buy a new latch for it tomorrow-no wait, I don’t have to go out till Wednesday I still have food left with me. You know, I am afraid of sunlight. In fact I am afraid of light of any kind( I use candle). It reminds me of the world outside.

I don’t like people. I don’t like them now and I certainly didn’t like them before. That’s why I got into fights. Fights are a thing of past, now people have the knowledge that I have screwed my life, they are no longer jealous of me. I know they are fools, always knew that, but now since I don’t have the obligation to be in their company I don’t feel the need to correct them. I no longer try to make them see the point. That’s why the tags don’t bother me.

I once had a bet with my “friend” that I cannot go 4 weeks without a single hit. I spent a year without even thinking about it. Earned 50,000. I still can. But now I don’t have to prove anything to anyone. My friend stopped talking to me; he thought that I cheated somehow. It was impossible for him to believe that an addict like me could stay away from drugs, or a person who is a habitual user can’t be an addict. Told you, people are fools. They don’t want to tax their mental faculties. For them everything should be either black or white. There is no such thing as grey. Otherwise why would they even worship god. I find that laughable.

You know I returned that 50,000 back, and that bloody bastard wanted 50,000 more. Said, the fact that you are returning my money proves that you cheated. So you owe me. I paid him. Money doesn’t matter. I have plenty of it- at least for me. Money was never important.

The only thing that I held faith in was love, but that too was superficial. I realized that when after going through jitters I finally proposed her. She said yes. But then I felt that my proposing lifted a deadweight off my shoulder. I didn’t want her assent; I just wanted to feel something. Nothing she could have said that would have made any difference. I didn’t feel anything. I was indifferent to her yes or her no. I told her that I was joking; it was a bet with my friend. She was royally pissed, asked me to go to hell, called me choicest of names.

The only thing I regret about this incidence is that I have provided people with a reason by which they can rationalize my action. They think that my descent into drugs was the result of this. They think that I was spurned by her.

I have given them a chance to bring me down to their level and defeat me. They don’t realize that this nature of mine is not the outcome of chemicals that I lace my blood with every day. The very act of finding solace in the embrace provided by drugs is outcome of my nature.

Okay, now you can take a leave. My joint is ready. See I didn’t even look at my hands once during this whole talk. I hope you have enough material for your article.

Adios.

PS: 
Some explanations: 
I thought of trying something new with this post. Hence Apartment 2. Imagine a journalist talking to the residents of that building, and recording their responses. So this is a monologue by resident of Flat #310. As of now I have ideas about 3 or 4 such fictional monologues and shall be posting them if and when I find time.