The small pile of yellow powder is a mountain. Right there on the coffee table in front of me. An entire bottle crushed to dust. The small mom-and-pop pharmacy by our new apartment worked fine. Or maybe my prescription forging skills are just improving. Maybe I’m just that good.
Maybe they’ll make a movie of me someday. Of my forging prescriptions and drug abuse and life in prison. My life of crime. My life at the bottom.
Maybe I’ll get clean and write that movie.
Maybe someone will actually want to watch it. But probably not. Because there are already a million movies like that. A million life stories that aren’t worth shit to anyone. Not even the person living it.
No one will want to watch it because who the fuck am I?
I’m just a person with a mountain of yellow powder on the coffee table in front of me. I’m just a person with nothing to do and nowhere to be for the foreseeable future. I’m just a man about to snort my weight in crushed pills.
I’m just a man that’s going to get to the moon, one way or another.
By the time my yellow mountain is gone I will have seen my own death a million times. I will have replayed my life over and over again. I will have rewrote my history until my past was something more big-screen worthy.
By the time I am finished here my heart will have stopped beating more times than should be possible. And I will take a deep breath and hold it in until the sun replaces the moon in the sky.
By the time my drugs are gone there will be nothing left but to sleep.