A State I don’t want to be in...

I’m walking on a sidewalk in a state I don’t want to be in, in a state I don’t want to be in.

I’m looking for a place to drink the concoction that I’ve been chained to for years now. The sweat dripping down my face, while my hands shake as they try to keep it out of my eyes. Withdrawal, my bodies betrayal of my attempt at keeping appearances through cheap hair product and a comb in my hair, now becoming white tinged beads of bullet large sweat, streaming down my forehead.

I know I’ve got to drink this soon, as the fear of police attention, and the desperation of a sick man compete in my head for dominance. I duck into somewhere that looks secluded enough to chug. An industrial terrain across from some train tracks. I realize that I look just as out of place here, as I do anywhere else, a pale faced, ashen sickly corpse-akin, broken-down man. I likely reek of the potion that keeps me well at this point, since my paranoia only allows me to take the swiftest of sips, spilling everywhere and anywhere in the process, trying to balance a 24 ounce can in my small inner pocket of my garbage bag faux leather jacket. I’m wearing black chino jeans and a polo, with my garbage bag jacket, and a string backpack biting into my shoulders.

Another sojourn through a mid to large sized city in Anywhere, USA. Chasing after a woman, or a friend, or a drink, or a drug, or a place. Ending in the same familiar story.

I cross back over the railroad tracks and come around a bend in the road, where some workmen pass by me in their conversion vans, giving me half interested stares. I look back at the clearing in the industrial terrain, already nostalgically longing for my brief encounter with seclusion, privacy, and artificial dignity.