I want to get inside this character's head. How would I feel if the closest thing to living was having methamphetamine coarsing through my veins? When did blood cease to be enough to sustain a human being?
I'm basing this story partially on two people I know. One (M) is a recovered meth addict, the other (J) is a current crack addict. The latter I would consider quite a good friend. The age group is similar, but scenario here is totally different - both of these people I know via the melbourne queer scene - but the principle still stands. Though it wouldn't really occur to me to broach the subject (the term deaf ears springs to mind), I do hope that, eventually, he finds a reason to rid himself of his crackpipe, of his own will.
Maybe I'm trying to personify courage. I don't know. I'm trying to put into a metaphor what is impossible for me to conjure up into my verbal interactions with the world. I've seen drugs do some nasty shit to people, their relationships, their interactions with the everyday world, and most of all themselves. The fact that most of them live in denial scares me. 'Creatures of habit' takes on a whole new meaning when one of your 'friends' goes through a good $100/day of crystallised cocaine.
I understand the desire to want to put a barrier between yourself and your emotions. But it's a depressing way of life and a degenerative one if you let it control you. I'm 21 and already I can see this... does that mean I can make a difference?