The cruelest irony is that he did not start by hating himself. He started by hating the volume of the world. He wanted to turn down the noise. Drugs turned down the noise, then turned off the lights, then unplugged the house from the grid.
First went the room of ambition. The scholarships, the half-written novel, the guitar with the broken string—he traded them for the quiet hum of the next hit. The Boy Who Lost Himself To Drugs BETTER
It arrived not as a demon, but as a lullaby. The first time, it took the gravel and turned it to silk. The second time, it silenced the tuning fork. The third time, it erased the maps. He didn’t need to chart wonder anymore; wonder was a nuisance. He needed only the warm, velvet repetition of the needle, the pipe, the pill. The cruelest irony is that he did not
And then he found the medicine that wasn't medicine. Drugs turned down the noise, then turned off