Sedation
Sometimes it’s all a bit much. The pervasive fear of living on the knife’s edge. Destitution on one side, mere survival on the other. In an at-will state, your fate could be decided on a whim.
Then there’s the inexorable march of time. Who said it heals all wounds? Pink Floyd had it right: With each day we’re shorter of breath and one day closer to death. I feel it in my bones, the inevitability.
And as if that wasn’t enough, we shoulder the banal injustices of daily life. The insufferable people, the fear of violence, political madness, the weight of responsibility, and the demise of the natural world.
And so, on occasion, I retreat. I dig through my closet to find a little package from a farmacia south of the border. I swallow the benzo dry and wait patiently. Before long, I don’t care anymore. Blissful indifference, if only for the night.