Biscuits, Triscuits…


“Do You Dream, Dezi?” – Patrick Maguire
September 13, 2013, 7:32 am
Filed under: Micro Fiction | Tags: ,

Back before those-that-claimed-they-loved-me began questioning my mental state, I used to live to dream.  Every night traveling to the same familiar location.  Experiencing unusually cordial encounters with those that anchored my waking life.

I so rarely met a new face.  That’s why she stood out.  Dezi.  Her name was simply present, as if I’d known it all along.

Grace told me that I had constructed her out of my unconscious.  Said that Dezi represented my want for love and acceptance.  Treated her like some kind of loose leaf handbill for my emotional needs.  This backbiting psychotherapist reeked of peach pits and perpetually sucked on lemon drops.  She was also full of shit.

Regardless, the dreams are gone now.  Scooped out by bastards and whores.  But I can get them back, through 2C-E.  Fifteen milligrams reveals the window, twenty undoes the lock, and twenty-five lets me through.  So I chase down thirty with a bit of water.

Oh, those tiny crystalline shards of wonder.

My habit is no more economically debilitating than a caffeine addiction and infinitely more thrifty than hundred dollar an hour doctorates.  I’ve cast away the lie that my health has no price tag.

During psychedelic sessions I can only manage four words:

“Do you dream, Dezi?”

She never replies.  Never tells me I’m ungrateful.

Tusten told me I had to find peace and love within myself.  Said that Dezi was purely a random construction of my mind.  Scolded me for directing my focus away from enlightenment.  I always thought Tusten was a stupid name.  His ideas were just as idiotic.

The room in which I dose perhaps served as a pantry under previous tenants.  Charcoal drawings, flaking pastel colors, jigsaw floor to ceiling.  The phenethylamine draws her from my second-rate artistic renderings.  Her dress is woven in fractals and edged by tracers of tracers.

Suborned specialists have, at one time or another, awarded me every disorder that can be pharmaceutically treated.  It was somewhere between taking Lorazepam, because the well educated misdiagnosed my heroin addiction for catatonic depression, and being prescribed Methadone with Xanax that the dreams stopped.

Every substance abuse counselor has been asinine.  No one’s wanted to talk about Dezi.  Not Donny or Jason or Megan or Steve or Aubrey or Rich or Dameon or Jennifer, none of the counselors I’ve had.  They were always more interested in horseshit stories about stealing microwaves and flat screen TVs.  Group is a bunch of addicts getting new contacts to score from.

Those-that-claim-they-love-you are a tricky bunch.  In youth they abandon you.  In adulthood they shun you.   And as parents, well, they give up lying at some point.

Everyone’s given up but me.

Just me… and her.  Dancing for hours on end.  Birthing performance pieces that depict everything from creation to Instrumentality.  Her body arcing in an overly familiar fashion.  Showing off a face that says ‘no one’s gonna love you.’

Always replied by a smirk that says ‘I know.’

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