Dear Cocaine

Dear Cocaine. – (Of Melancholia of the Drunk, A series of Monologues, Letters and Rants, by Phill Ibsen)

I have not been doing much thinking lately. My mind was to handle that luxurious bit, but as usual, it did what it did – it left me, and now I am crawling on my weak elbows with my salty tongue licking my bruised knees. I thought we were better than this. I thought we were the new beginning. Unfortunately like everything new, we were bound to be exhaustive, or maybe we should have found consolation in the mere thought that every new beginning lacks a manual.

You exist as a figment of my imagination, and with time, you have taken control over my desperate self. I had quit smoking, and the booze could not get close to my addiction, even my erection couldn’t succumb to the pleasurable tools at my disposal, until I met you when I least expected. At first, I tried you in small quantities, but nerves would have it that my system needed you more, and for every intake, I lost myself to the whims of your arms. Turned out, I fell in love with you before I liked you. You reveled over the fact that I was unwrapping myself to you, growing weak for you, you cannibal piece of powder. F you!

Did we not promise ourselves that we would take it slow? Did we not agree that we would not jinx our relationship, whether platonic or casual, by speaking of the future and making promises? Why did we have to pretend, that we were destined for each other, when in truth, all we wanted, was someone to remind us that it was okay to be alone? Why did we have to play the game when all we wanted was someone to show us that our toxic selves were intolerable?

It begun with a simple sniff really, using long nails for measurements and sometimes the paper to draw trails. It felt all right, like the rest of the world never mattered except the infinitesimal moments I spent with you hiding from the world, corrupting my mind. You eased my pain then created a barrier between those whose love for me was dying and I. For you I am casted in the darkest pits, where the only light is my white queen. All of a sudden, you are a thing feared, but who gives an F, huh? They once were where you are and did nothing except take the spaces for granted. Now I’m happily saddened. Now they cry foul when they see me dine.

Why should I be mad at you though? You have seen me change over the course of our time together. You have seen me rise from the melancholic slumber into a world where the audience adulates me, because I matter now. Because I am funny now, I am much more exciting than before. It wasn’t because I was special, neither was it because I was ordained. All of it I owe to you, but for how long was that to last? How long was I to be mocked as a desperate pig enslaved by you? What kind of human was I, busy licking off your undergarments from your skin?

The rhetoric that I have to show in my little ways of appreciation is that, even though you came to me at no cost, you never came to me cheaply. To treasure you is to love you, and to love is to dare, and I ain’t ready to lose you yet. Stay with me.

Written by Phill Ibsen, Master of Descriptions.