2: tales and confessions of a (recovering) junkie


My name is Jon,

And I am an addict.

I am addicted to cigarettes, sex, feet, signature colognes, eye drops, research, gum and telling stories.

What is your addiction?

Why are you an addict?

Two questions I can’t answer correctly and cohesively for fear that it may lead to something even more inductive like bohemianism or the yielding fact of weakness – the more impenetrable reality that I am really just obsessed with joie de vivre and we all know weakness stemmed from the stupefaction of pleasure.

And self-indulgence.

No harm in that but listen closely.  Addiction is the 11th Commandment and it is simply dangerous if not sinful.  Do you know why?  Because simply, addiction is tyranny of the spirit and the quickest way to dissolve into physical deterioration.

So let me break it down.  These are episodes of addiction . . . substance abuse footages in dimensional locales.

The Dark God

Some ten years ago, when things get really bad, I usually bike around town, the last stop being the beach where 90 per cent of its scanty populace always ends up in varied hours of byronic breakdowns or mainly booting those lazy provincial asses for a splash.  I guess during those days all it took were my hyperlegs to paddle, the old cemetery a few blocks from our house, a pack of local Marlboros and the wind, the beach. It was all innocent. After college, odd jobs and finally getting all the tangibles you selfishly required, bad times become murky and between the cigs, the disc changes, drugs, alcohol, friends, non-friends who becomes the hero of the day and the association of balancing your lack with everything around you – empathy – everything warps and I always return to the same road that I’ve been. They say it’s the cycle. Bullshit.

In Paulo Coelho’s Veronika Decides To Die, the protagonist hounded pills after realizing that she can’t go back experiencing the same things over and over again because the magic of things only happens once as happiness cannot be resuscitated to regain the same subterranean feel, the same carnality. The book gave me a unfailing tingle having that theme of taking your life when you’re in your happiest rather than the popular in your shittiest but when you really get down to it, that’s phobia in a grander scale. How can you possibly take your life claiming you are happy? Besides happiness is an encounter more than an attainment. It’s a feather that falls softly from your hair to your eyes and then the wind blows and it’s gone. I clearly remember dropping Calculus that one daft semester when life was the theatre and shabu. I was so pissed I cried all afternoon. Then I went to the bathroom, sat on the throne and felt everything shimmering around me. It may have been the relief of having it all cried down but I knew it was something else. I sensed God with all that air that went straight to my lungs. There was beauty and peace and it was shapeless.  Two minutes of bliss then it was gone

And so I fire up a joint to prolong my search for God and maybe . . . penetrability

Journal Entry 2009


In a canvass of pure metallic white, I sit in this bed, the smell of rose incense passing through my nose down to my smoke-out lungs, out again between my teeth, comically sensing that the world outside my cold room is full of ugly snakes who are ready to crawl its way inside me AND TAKE MY PLACE.

I can smell the sourness of my feet as I cross my legs, fresh from a hard day at work. I think about my pupilage Eldan and how it would kill me, gratified and spent, just to laugh with him.  I see us in Manila, peeping through his wooded sliding window, humid-oiled, laughing at the people walking down Prudencio street while trying to figure out Bjork’s music.  Gone are the good days, I must say, when things were so undiscovered.  When every puff of cigarette meant a promise that days will be better and when every second does not really count, devil may care!

I look at the purple walls of my slivered room and I wonder why I never took a roommate.  Also, I wonder why after all this time living alone, away from my family and away from my own motherland for that matter, I still grope for somebody I can tell stupid things to like, “I cheated on my diet today” or “I want to really REALLY quit smoking but I can’t.  I am beginning to feel scared about lung cancer.  A grandfather of mine died to lung cancer last year”.

Remotely familiar with the right DVD to watch, I feed my player with the fourth season of FRIENDS and try to watch it.  With the volume muted and with only the rush of colors onto the screen of greens, blues and yellows, I stare mindlessly towards it, allowing the grim of misconception take over me. So, finally there is comprehension in a sense . . .  Almost drunk from exhaustion, there is such beauty in shapeless things – or at least from how I see it coming from tube – senseless rattles, mobile humans trying to be friends and such alarming capacity to comprehend the joy of being deaf.  Such clarity it is not to hear anything.  Such vividness it is not to COMPREHEND everything.

I ignore the television and thought about smoking in the bathroom.  But what joy will it take to transfer domains when all there is in the bathroom are ghosts of a pre-day?  Innumerable bouts of happiness defecating the toxins away and the scent of a post bathed me hovering on its mighty tiles screaming OH HOW I WOULD LOVE TO GET DIRTY AGAIN !

I march to my red folding chair and I light my Marlboro and I see myself some couple years back; long-haired, smelling like dump and getting all the sex I can get.  Those days when I did not care about misjudging myself.  Days when I actually do not judge myself as much as I do today. Those years back in college when I worshipped sarcasm and wrote poems about rape, Jesus Christ and sadomasochism.  So then, I draw the map of my youth, trying to desecrate the overpowering judgments of my adulthood and then I find out, there is absolutely nothing worth the discourse at all.  We all change.  I changed.

But why am I sad?

Why didn’t melancholy leave me for good?

Its visitations are so accompanied by my obsession for permanence in my life like lovers, friends and books who derogatively left me, abandoned me and well, moved on.  Why can’t I move on without changing?  Why can’t we? Wouldn’t it be nice to float through time with all the good things sticking to you like glue – never leaving you for good?

So I sit in my still-empty canvass to wait for slumber to knock in.

Recovering Junkie

The danger of addiction is dark beauty that surround it.  It is misleading and yet, so fascinating.  It shrouds mistakes and turns it into pinnacles of wanting.  And wanting for more.  We all know that man was created to be insatiable.  It is a twisted thought but it feels true.   Again, it is worth searching for answers.  Hence, have you ever asked yourself why you do proxies of unravelment rather ironing the creases of your yearnings?  Why solve the problem when you can actually drink?  Why linger on morose thoughts when you can reimburse your soul by being kind to it?

Someday you’ll wake up knowing you lost a precious diamond while you were too busy collecting stones as someone said.

You see, pleasure and indulgence are soldiers of melancholy, thus, I may say,


My name is Jon,

And I am addicted to sadness.

I am also a slave of my own makings.

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