The Agriculturist
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This is the second book I am writing as of now. Jackals and Bulls is worked on in my sobriety, while this book came on as somthing to do when i'm inebriated. I'll also mention now; I have never, will never, and don't recommend to anyone ever, to do heroin. Just don't. please and thank you.
I felt a pull. Very distinct, very powerful. I was helpless against it. Torn from my own body, my consciousness soared in every imaginable direction, expanding, expanding, encompassing everything. I saw beyond what we normally perceive, seeing each and every object in the universe for what it was; particles of energy. And I became that energy. I became those particles. I became the universe.
I was given information from everywhere, things I could not even imagine, ideas that have been, ideas that are, and ideas that will come. Those who have lived, those who live, those that will live. I saw everything. I was Everything.
And then I met her. Again.
She was apart from it all, not a part of this universe, and therefore not part of me, so far beyond me in fact, beyond measure, beyond description, beyond comprehension. She simply was, as I simply was, a Universe on her own, for her own, by her own. One far more complex then ours, than mine, than I could ever become.
And so she appeared there, her mere presence of glowing green feeding me more energy than I have ever before felt, more alive than i have ever before felt.
She is a woman, a female, with a face even human. But to say that with certainty would be to completely ignore all that I have ever learned. All I can say is that to me, even in this state of perception, she appeared as a woman, perhaps to comfort me. Her green being was composed differently than mine, her body composed of vines and leaves. And she appeared there before me, and she spoke.
"Become the substance of which life is made."
And I couldn't understand, was not able, nor am I sure I wanted to. It was too much responsibility. But she did not relent.
"Become the substance of which life is made."
And then the vines began to unfold from her, each becoming a distinct leaf, and each leaf becoming an entity. And they all chanted with her.
"Become the substance of which life is made."
As enormous as I was, as full of knowledge and life as I was, I could not handle her request. But she did not relent.
"Become the substance of which life is made."
She reached out, her hand slowly, majestically, beautifully sailing towards me in this realm beyond dimensions and space.
"Become the substance of which life is made."
and she reached my universe, my very being, It all ended.
And I was back.
Chapter I
About ten minutes have passed since I injected a good amount of raw heroin into my veins. It came on so gently, so beautifully. It cradled me, encompassed me, wrapped me in warmth, gifting me with waves of pleasure coursing through my limbs. It feels right. And it feels even better to feel.
This is a culmination of a week in which I visited, against my will, hell itself. I died twice. Neither time was pleasant, in retrospect. But it don’t matter much now, really, because lady luck has already prepared me a spot in the gallows, and it’s likely I’ll stay dead this time.
What’s most will find odd, is that I’m not even paying it any thought. First, because I have no money to pay, and second, and more important, is that I can’t think. I attribute that to Heroin. Heroin has always given me a sensational sense of sensual sensation all over my body, yet I always found it lacking in my head. ‘Cid, shrooms, cacti, those all stretch my mind to places I cannot begin to describe, and bless me with the most profound thoughts that a man could have. But with junk it’s different. With junk, I can look out of the window at the world, regardless of how shitty it could get, and say with no trouble, ‘I don’t give a ****’. So the fact that I’m to meet my end soon doesn’t matter. Nothing matters now, except ‘now’ itself. As now is all that I can prove is real. My memories of the past are faded at best, and my future could happen in any number of ways, all of which I am uncertain about, although certainly end in my death. But now, in my sweet, ever-comforting now, I am alive.
But for how long? Who cares? My life is shit. I had a job, but then I died, so they let me off. When I went back to that McDonald’s to get my illustrious position as a fry cook back upon my return from death, they weren’t ecstatic about hiring a junkie. I guess they couldn’t tell before. But now, now that my medical file-which they have access to- states I have suffered an overdose on junk, they aren’t as open armed and friendly as they once were. **** the golden arches. I prefer the golden triangle.
I’m not quite sure why I started slamming, but I’m quite sure that slamming has lead me to my death, or rather deaths. I’ve been dying, slowly but surely, since the very first time I blew the smack, and first became tangled in its web. When I first hit the nod, I knew it was just a matter of time before I died, as that is what the nod is. ****ing odd that it’s what a junkie strives for. If there’s one thing that is universal to all junkies, is that our life is shit. But not when you’re on dope, and especially not when you’re on the nod. Then it’s just sleep. The most warm, wonderful, blissful and quiet sleep. Like a personal preview of the peaceful silence that is death.
If there is one thing I’m pissed off about is that I broke a promise I made to myself; I’d quite the junk before I died. ****ing good that promise was, as junk was what killed me the first time. The second time came about when I was looking for the perfect hit. Now I’m not clean yet, and if the third time is ahead, then I just say **** it, there’s no point to quit now. This time maybe I’ll stay dead. Maybe this time I can finally fulfill that promise. At least when I’m dead, I won’t be on heroin.
JUNK
I was given information from everywhere, things I could not even imagine, ideas that have been, ideas that are, and ideas that will come. Those who have lived, those who live, those that will live. I saw everything. I was Everything.
And then I met her. Again.
She was apart from it all, not a part of this universe, and therefore not part of me, so far beyond me in fact, beyond measure, beyond description, beyond comprehension. She simply was, as I simply was, a Universe on her own, for her own, by her own. One far more complex then ours, than mine, than I could ever become.
And so she appeared there, her mere presence of glowing green feeding me more energy than I have ever before felt, more alive than i have ever before felt.
She is a woman, a female, with a face even human. But to say that with certainty would be to completely ignore all that I have ever learned. All I can say is that to me, even in this state of perception, she appeared as a woman, perhaps to comfort me. Her green being was composed differently than mine, her body composed of vines and leaves. And she appeared there before me, and she spoke.
"Become the substance of which life is made."
And I couldn't understand, was not able, nor am I sure I wanted to. It was too much responsibility. But she did not relent.
"Become the substance of which life is made."
And then the vines began to unfold from her, each becoming a distinct leaf, and each leaf becoming an entity. And they all chanted with her.
"Become the substance of which life is made."
As enormous as I was, as full of knowledge and life as I was, I could not handle her request. But she did not relent.
"Become the substance of which life is made."
She reached out, her hand slowly, majestically, beautifully sailing towards me in this realm beyond dimensions and space.
"Become the substance of which life is made."
and she reached my universe, my very being, It all ended.
And I was back.
Chapter I
About ten minutes have passed since I injected a good amount of raw heroin into my veins. It came on so gently, so beautifully. It cradled me, encompassed me, wrapped me in warmth, gifting me with waves of pleasure coursing through my limbs. It feels right. And it feels even better to feel.
This is a culmination of a week in which I visited, against my will, hell itself. I died twice. Neither time was pleasant, in retrospect. But it don’t matter much now, really, because lady luck has already prepared me a spot in the gallows, and it’s likely I’ll stay dead this time.
What’s most will find odd, is that I’m not even paying it any thought. First, because I have no money to pay, and second, and more important, is that I can’t think. I attribute that to Heroin. Heroin has always given me a sensational sense of sensual sensation all over my body, yet I always found it lacking in my head. ‘Cid, shrooms, cacti, those all stretch my mind to places I cannot begin to describe, and bless me with the most profound thoughts that a man could have. But with junk it’s different. With junk, I can look out of the window at the world, regardless of how shitty it could get, and say with no trouble, ‘I don’t give a ****’. So the fact that I’m to meet my end soon doesn’t matter. Nothing matters now, except ‘now’ itself. As now is all that I can prove is real. My memories of the past are faded at best, and my future could happen in any number of ways, all of which I am uncertain about, although certainly end in my death. But now, in my sweet, ever-comforting now, I am alive.
But for how long? Who cares? My life is shit. I had a job, but then I died, so they let me off. When I went back to that McDonald’s to get my illustrious position as a fry cook back upon my return from death, they weren’t ecstatic about hiring a junkie. I guess they couldn’t tell before. But now, now that my medical file-which they have access to- states I have suffered an overdose on junk, they aren’t as open armed and friendly as they once were. **** the golden arches. I prefer the golden triangle.
I’m not quite sure why I started slamming, but I’m quite sure that slamming has lead me to my death, or rather deaths. I’ve been dying, slowly but surely, since the very first time I blew the smack, and first became tangled in its web. When I first hit the nod, I knew it was just a matter of time before I died, as that is what the nod is. ****ing odd that it’s what a junkie strives for. If there’s one thing that is universal to all junkies, is that our life is shit. But not when you’re on dope, and especially not when you’re on the nod. Then it’s just sleep. The most warm, wonderful, blissful and quiet sleep. Like a personal preview of the peaceful silence that is death.
If there is one thing I’m pissed off about is that I broke a promise I made to myself; I’d quite the junk before I died. ****ing good that promise was, as junk was what killed me the first time. The second time came about when I was looking for the perfect hit. Now I’m not clean yet, and if the third time is ahead, then I just say **** it, there’s no point to quit now. This time maybe I’ll stay dead. Maybe this time I can finally fulfill that promise. At least when I’m dead, I won’t be on heroin.
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