Friends who stick with you in your darkest of times are rare. I think it hurts more when you know that you would stick with them through anything. The weird thing is that I felt more alone when I was going to six form than now when I'm just at home by myself. I guess what it's made me appreciate are the friends who are still here with me. You all know who you are. 

 

This is only my sound article, so if you're wondering why I'm being so open it's because I just think life is too short to spend time hiding behind pretences. This article is a discussion I had with a friend of mine, who became my friend in my darkest of times.

 

I recline back into his cold leather chair, it's temperature is surprising refreshing on my skin; like turning over to the cool side of the pillow when you wake up halfway through the night. I throw my phone up in the air and then catch it. I repeat this monotonously while I drift into the confusing feeling which doesn't stop knocking on my door. The idea that I only feel like I know who I am when I am writing, I feel like a fraud when in real life. The loneliness which is a fruition of this hits me like when you're lying down texting and your phone falls on your face. 

 

"Fuck man, where have you gone off to now. Always thinking", my estranged Dominican friend exclaims as he puts a glass of water on the small dark wooden table next me. The glass is foggy with condensation and after I leave it half empty or full (I can't care to remember my clichéd intake of H2O), I place it back on the table, now noticing the print my hand has made on its body. I watch as it fades away and the glass fogs up again; as the momentary clarity is lost. 

 

"So why am I humbled by your visit today?", Pablo asks with a pre-divulged grin painted on his face. I adjust my gaze is his direction and then raise my phone in my hands as if I'm about to throw a basketball to signal to him that I'm about to throw my phone to him and he better catch it unless he wants to pay the excess on my insurance. With a flick of my wrist my phone hurtles itself through the room. I think I've put too much power into this one. It awkwardly misses his awaiting hands and instead decides to flatly impale itself onto his face. He laughs, I laugh - his humility demonstrates our good friendship.

 

  I tell him to read. He does so and I observe his facial expression so I can deceiver when he reads the part where it states that my second article requires his unknowing involvement. After a while he laughs and looks up at me. I look back knowingly.

 

  As I now know how far he has got through the note, I interrupt him from reading by narrating the rest.  "As I've been much more involved in drugs recently, since I've been creating a bloody documentary on them; an interesting question has arose, 'Can drugs only be used as an escape (from pain, pressure or reality in general) or can they also be used to further enhance life?'"

 

He stops me by raising his hand.  "I will not only talk to you just about drugs. I will talk to you about addiction", he boldly announces.  A stream of sun suddenly bursts through the gap in his curtains, passing right in-front of my face. Particles of dust now appear. They where there before the sun interrupted my focus, but now I can see them, swarming in the air I have been breathing. I am momentarily lost in the idea of the constant unseen which surrounds us.  The end of the beam of sun lands on a marble fireplace. I now notice the natural abstract design of the marble and how dust has built in the corners of the fireplace. I always get lost in detail. I find it kind of hypnotising. I just feel it gives you an idea of the complexity of the reality in which we proceed.

 

The beam of light suddenly expands, immersing the room. I look over to the curtains and see Pablo standing there, somewhat triumphantly.  "I am picking up a bad British habit." He murmurs. "Whenever it is sunny they shut the curtains. They can't handle the light. In Dominican we spend all our time in the sun." 

 

I ponder this statement and the fact that my mum makes me take a vitamin D tablet every morning, because she thinks that I don't get enough time in the sun and vitamin D has been "shown to massively improve your mood".  Bringing myself back to reality, I say, "How do you mean addiction". While this may sound like an question which has an obvious answer; I need make sure that there is a consensus in regards to the definition of the word that will consume us in discussion. 

 

"We are all addicts. It is just that some of our drugs are more potent or more accepted that overs." Pablo explains.  My eyes slightly open. I have always thought that everyone one is addicted to something and so I am shortly injected with joy that someone else thinks like me.  "You mean like not only illegal drugs but things like alcohol, violence, eating, sex, gambling and so on..?" 

 

"Somewhat." He says unsurely. A pause arises in the conversation as his eyes dart up to the ceiling and his hands unconsciously massage his stubble. He is heavy in thought.  He suddenly opens his bag searching avidly. "Here we go!", he almost shouts in excitement. He throws a kitchen magnet towards me and it strikes me on the chest. I pick it up and read, "We are all prostitutes and junkies". 

 

"Aha! Now I understand." I say smiling. "There is current ethos that you should work ridiculous hours for scraps; that you should sell your time to anyone who is willing to pay - so basically your getting fucked, e.g. prostitute. You do this because society tells you that the only way you can be happy is if you get those high brand clothes or that new car or that big house or that hot wife - therefore you are no different to a junkie as you look to gain your happiness from the external." I affirm with a denotation of precaution. 

 

He smiles, "I knew you would understand". 

 

We sit in silence for a bit thinking it over. I always like when I can just sit in silence with someone and it's not awkward. Both lost in your own worlds. 

 

The weather suddenly changes, a fleet of heavy rain screams out for attention as it collides with the half open window. I like the rain, it's so calming. More detail is now exposed. The rainwater wafts in the smell of the freshly showered overgrown bush outside his window. 

 

"The scary thing is that we believe that these external inanimate objects (drugs) will further enhance our life, but more dangerously, without them we believe that we will become nothing." Pablo continues.  "I hear you ask; why when we know all this are we still junkies to these objects? Pablo asks rehtorically. "This is crudely judicated by the only inevitability in life - death. We fear that our existence will never be noted. We fear that all the love, all the pain, all the happiness, all the memories and experiences will be for nothing. Therefore the question you must be asking is not whether drugs can enhance life but whether any of us feel we can have a life without our drugs?"

 

'There are two tradegies in life: one is not getting what one wants and the other is getting it.' - Oscar Wilde.

 

Hope you enjoyed my article. While Pablo is real (and is the smartest person I know) this whole conversation was made up by me as I thought that it would allow me to make my point in an entertaining way. How imaginative am I? ;) 

 

If someone could buy me a car and introduce me to my hot future wife it would be much appreciated. Much love until we next meet.