(Since I can’t talk, I might as well write.)
The floor is wet. It’s all right, ethanol evaporates quickly. The party rages on.
Spiraling toward liver cirrhosis, lung cancer, schizophrenia; the more we learn, the less we care. Thanks Officer, for those goggles, for showing me how beautiful the world looks to an alcoholic. How soon can I try for myself? No? What do you call it?
Drug dependence? No. That can’t happen to me. I’m immune, immortal.
Drug abuse? Abuse. I don’t like that word. Too acute. Angular. The lines too harsh, too sharp the edges. I prefer… dabble. Soft Bs and Ls. No painful implications.
The innocent are brainwashed. The corrupt are enlightened. The former are too closed-minded to step beyond the chalkboard lines drawn in health class. The latter have found… what? What used to be a search for truth, a spiritual revolution, a quest for self-discovery? Those days are gone. No noble name can be given to the not-so-cheap thrills we now seek. We who are “heading for utopia”.
We who have sought equality have nearly found it. We who have challenged dictators have overthrown them.
But the utopia we live in is imperfect. It is dirty and smog-filled and diseased. We who praise rebellion merely search for an escape. We don’t want to expand our minds; we want to close our eyes.
We’re not looking for utopia. We’re ignoring the fact that we haven’t found it.