The Death of A Drug Addict

This excerpt was originally written by me on Friday, July 8^th,2011.

In memory of Honey Chachu.

Today is the death anniversary of a dearly beloved of mine, or thought so by myself. For his existence in my life was both important and unimportant. Both obscure and translucent. In his lifetime, he breathed, ate, talked and lived in every other manner that is necessary. He was an individual. He was a human. He was something to me. He was something to everyone, as meager as his existence was. He was an addict. His existence, all of his world was centered on only a couple of milligrams of the white silvery powder. The little packets that they love to wave around in TV dramas and movies. Its procurement and consumption were his prime motives. When consumed to the last particles, this was his salvation. The cause and remedy of his madness. A wasted man, lying around a corner so that life would pass him by. Calmly and inaudibly. So that his existence became something to be pondered at. So that we asked ourselves, if he was ever there?

He bound himself with me with such convoluted and transverse threads that it was difficult to distinguish them. I didn't know, neither cared to know him. Yet he was bound to me, bound to me with the strongest tie God could manage…that of blood. But then again what are the ties of blood? Are they really as strong as we make them to be? Would I feel anything for my better half if I never knew it existed? However, past all reprisals, he was bound to me.

He also bound himself to me with certain other notions. That of touch, sight and sound. For, though for the briefest of times, he existed around me, within me. Thus, though he lives only in the most fleeting moments of my life. He was there. He came. He lived and he went when he felt it was all over. But he was there. I saw him. I heard him say something or heard his silence still. I held him hold my gaze. I felt his presence and his touch.

Yes, he existed in every way possible. In every way that a man, an individual is permissible.

I think his was the most worst of the existences. He didn't matter much to anyone just like when you are a child, like when you think you are fat or ugly or when a certain boy wouldn't look at you. Like the pain or the hurt you feel when someone breaks your heart, like when they pick your best friend over you. They always tell you’ll grow out of it and it doesn't really matter because it really doesn't.  Just like that he mattered very little and yet seemed to take huge mounds of space.

However, I envy him even more so today then ever before. What a ragged, mad creature of fate he was. He divulged in his passions and desires fully immersed in the waves. He neither knew nor cared if he would ever be able to come out of the raging dark that he so loved to live in. Was he brave? Did he make a choice he knew would lead to his destruction? Why did he do it then? Weak? Was he weak to follow his raving, raw instincts? To follow that animal desire to reach his climax. He indulged in his dark and sinister rage to the point of exhaustion. He gave himself over to his madness. A most raging madness that left him with the devil.

He left himself somewhat in my memories too. Nevertheless, he would fade away in them just as he has begun to fade away in others. I don’t think I want to miss him or cry for him. I don’t think he would want me to and I don’t think I would ever be able to even if I tried too. I don’t understand what I learn from his obscure life and a prolonged miserable death. How it acts or saves me. A brute I might be I've stopped trying to learn from others. So I don’t remember him. I forget him. This lies as an ode to his notoriety. A Notoriety, I think I would have loved to know if only he had let himself to be known. If only he was like one of us, one of me.