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Blogs by Wanda S Miller-Berry
Satan's Playground
8/27/2006 5:49:19 PM
My very being was moved by the erratic behavior of a spirit caught-up in the dark and misguided world of drug addiction. This once gentle spirit, with whom I share familial ties, whose charismatic life once traveled the straight and narrow pathway, is now characterized as a spirit derailed, a spirit now disembarked into the never ending reality of hell on earth (i.e., crack-cocaine addiction). I feel the need to release the frustration and hopelessness that I felt when gazing into the eyes of a life lost to a world in which the purposes for entering the obtrusivre madness of those blinded by those who are themselves blind to the freedom that truth brings was the obsessive need for self-gratification, a false sense of assurance whose only guarantee comes from those who themselves are blind to the reality of the downward spiral of living in the non-constraints of uncertainty. It was a false promise of relief from an ever persistent and gnawing pain, a false promise of acceptance, a false promise of insurmountable pleasure. It was a false promise of...?
My cup runs over, not with disdain, but with hope of recompense for this now very lost and sad soul. It is because of him and for him that I share this excerpt of writing with you.
As he sat groping himself beneath the moonlit sky, a cold chill continued to play havoc with his spine. Heavily vein-ridden leaves of gold, and various others with hues of orange and brown, rustled about the cold hard pavement upon which he sat, their crinkled textured surfaces settling into huddled masses as they inconspicuously gathered around him. His teeth, now a shade of off-cast yellow, and caked with layers upon layers of pungent and decaying matter, chattered as the effects from the prolonged high dissipated and took a back seat to the ever increasing chill that consumed the air, as well as his worn and battered body.
An ashen film covered his coal-black skin, a testament to his destructive and crack addicted lifestyle. He began to massage his testicles with an ever increasing vigor; his memory of a short lived erection weighing heavily on his mind; with fleeting thoughts of his ever decreasing libido, and his ever increasing desire for more and more of the mind altering drug. The back of his ashen black knuckles rubbed across his flared nostrils, the orifice that consumed the deadly substance. The dry rough skin of his hand did not register with his reasoning as it would with others of whom a form of sanity still resides. Blood trickled down from his worn and overused nostrils onto his heaving bare chest. The profuse surround of his thick, wiry, salt and pepper chest hairs stood boldly together as a consortium, a retaining wall, if you will, holding back the bloods further dissention onto the bony surfaces of his now naked body. He looked down; his red eyes ablaze and realized that the Tommy Hilfiger shirt and jean pants that had once covered his nakedness were now gone. His last pair of brand new Nike Air Jordan tennis shoes no longer wrapped his feet in warmth and comfort. The hooded red and white Sean John parker now, too, gone, would no longer protect his frail body from the elements. Yet his nakedness, nor his lack thereof, kept his mind from once again plotting and scheming to ensure the timely acquisition of the deadly substance for his next big hit.
As he attempted to rise from whence he sat, his hand brushed lightly against the surface of the tools necessary for his continued addiction: the crack paraphernalia (i.e., rolling papers, pipes, Bongs, stems, syringes, burnt spoons, small empty envelopes…). He grabbed the crack pipe and held it close to his heart, just as a mother would hold the soft and delicate flesh of her newborn child, an act of endearment and protection in lieu of impending danger.
As his writhing body continued its ascent, a gust of cold wind brushed past him, reinforcing his heightened sense of paranoia. The resulting dilemma: a delusional state of mind that interpreted the phenomenon as one of impending danger, his sense of logic and reasoning long since gone. He swatted the air, his flailing arms fighting nothing visible to those of which sound judgment still clung. Pale gray ghostly shadows surrounded him; impregnated demons pounced upon him, and thus, released upon him thousands upon thousands of conjured up visions of squirming maggots, which climbed slowly, but steadily upward on his bony, hairy black legs. The resulting terror caused him to scream, and the blood from his nostrils slithered backward and downward into the dark hollow confines of his blister-engorged throat. His screams (continued evidence of the invisible hand of the destructive crack demon) continued to inflict a state of delirium, which then summoned to his location, the predatory onslaught of more of his kind: “The Living Dead.”
Copyright 2006 Wanda S. Miller-Berry. All Rights Reserved
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August 2006 Blogs
• Satan's Playground - Sunday, August 27, 2006
• Your Life Is Not The Truth, Or Is It? - Sunday, August 13, 2006
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