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“Addiction: a chronic disease characterized by drug seeking and use that is compulsive, or difficult to control, despite harmful consequences.”

I am an addict. I was and always will be. I am addicted to work. My work is creation. I need to create to escape the confidence, boredom, mendacity and emptiness of what is. How destroying is this world! With all its values and savagery. I don´t create for money. Money doesn´t exist. It only exist because we use it, every day. It only exists because we are addicted to the idea it can provide us a better existence. Get over it. I do create my anger, frustration, helplessness and sadness to understand myself. To understand this man-made shithole of a world. Creating is being able to transform, to change things how they are, why they are and dismantle to its pointless purpose. Creation is my survival strategy and only way to keep me alive. Concepts like love or happiness mean shit to me. And should mean nothing anymore to men. How can you still talk about love and peace? Love is a clumsy reaction to hate. Happiness a hilarious expression facing the agony of misery. Instead of opening we do isolate us, to protect us, ourselves. Instead of recognizing the worthlessness of life after encountering what is, storming it and beating the hell out of it! I do not love myself. I do respect myself. I do not need to be happy, but I know how to make other people happy and this gives me purpose, purpose to create, purpose to be here, me, this life. My demands, tagging the script of my choice of my addiction. Addiction needs repetition. Rituals. Ritual is a highly stimulating accumulator to ease, to engage and to trick yourself. And for this the heart of self-abuse. A heart which creates and destroys at one beat. Bleed out bleed in.

“Ritual: a religious or solemn ceremony consisting of a series of actions performed according to a prescribed order.”

I suppose to understand my tricking brain, I need to control my rituals. I need to be the priest and the sheep, the lying sadist and the masochist. I need to demand their subjection as I am the creator, I am all divinity. Rituals. My rituals. After a long day of work, dealing with the business man inside of me, behind his back the creator laughing out in tears and spitting blood, I need to consolidate, to decompress myself again. Exorcise the sheep. And be able to sleep, stopping my creating brain. Go fucking die! Alcohol and weed and anything else potentially crosses my self-purification are my ingredients of immolation. To shut down. Down to pitch blackness, close to beyond, the point of no return. The impotent state of mind. Uninspiring. Senseless, producing more senselessness. Debilitating. Degrading. Destroying. Consumption of de-isms. Consumption of apathy. Assumption of expansion, the legend of all addicts. Morphing addictions all over. Sustaining vicous circles. One by one completing the compulsion of its necessity. I keep telling myself I can not challenge my drug addiction without causing an insuperable impact on my creation. And I strongly believe that this is part of the addictive character speaking, convincing, feeding it with despair and scars. The melancholic romance of a chronic depression. Of course there are better ways. Less dull, less self-destroying, much more recharging. I could reward myself going to the gym. Stimulating a different area of brain cells. Boxing. Get in the ring with my addiction. As I did before, before I did what I do now again. I am very aware of the need of change as the side effects, partially stress, are becoming imperative. The dark side of the side. Maybe that´s the subversive sanity in me abeting to overcome limitation. Producing chaos. And forcing a coup. A dramatic change. To save me. How exhausting these coups are.

to be continued…