But we, the junkie, sell our soul to Mr Black, and not because of our past, present, or future, because heroin is a nasty black spell that wants to ruin us and does. So once the junkie is strung out and fucked, the junkie looks and cries for anything in their sentimental past to replace family, so everyone the junkie talks about is a “best friend” or “brother” or some kind of “uncle.” Because once you take that plunge, and stick that spike into your tangled blue, helpless veins, you hit the reset button on your life, and relate everything you love and hate—then or now—to an illusion of family, due to the sudden loss of yours. And that hex you have very unintentionally put yourself under—when the doctor no longer feeds the habit they helped start, or when you were too young and stupid to think this could ever happen to you—is the sole reason.
When a junkie loses loved ones, we do anything in our instant messaging power to revisit the past, whether it’s people, places, things, or all of the above. And somehow, it is always the goddamn same as before, never a smidge of difference. That is why we are in the position of revisiting, and not a current state of whatever it is that connects us with this sentimentality.
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