InsaneJournal

do utra, do utra. byt' ili ne byt'.
I finally managed to get that fucking sliver of glass out of my foot. I had to peel back three layers of flesh, clean the dirt out, and there was blood fucking everywhere but at least I won't go limping around anymore. Taped it up and went on my way, but I don't know if it's going to heal up right. The cut was pretty deep, hasn't healed yet, but maybe that was because the sliver was still inside. I oughta go to the clinic and get it checked out, but I've got all of fifteen dollars and there's probably a cost.

come on socialized medicine

You know, I like that punk Ilyukha, probably way more than I should, but I wish he hadn't gotten to know me better himself. All we ever do is talk about Mikel and now he knows what sins I'm capable of, what a bad person I am. Or at least weak. I sincerely never meant to hurt him, I keep repeating, "I rather would have died than hurt him." But it's true, I hurt him, we both have to bear this shit now, and that, at very least, makes me weak. I had never thought of myself as weak until the other winter, when I was still with Sasha. Marina Matveyevna decided that she didn't want me in her house and was driving me home. She wanted to talk to me and she told me, "You both are very weak." And I didn't realize it until she said it, but when she said it I knew that it was true. Back then I was a fucking psychopath, I'd get angry and violent at the drop of a hat, and I thought it made me strong because at least I didn't feel hurt or start to cry. I just got mad. Like my body metabolized all my other emotions and turned them into blinding rage. I just remember things as months of anger and hate. No happiness, no love. And the feeling of captivity. Confinement. I used to hallucinate the steppes whenever I got sick. Wide-open deserts. And the oceans. I'd see them in my dreams. I'd talk about freedom all the time - whatever that meant. I was feral. Still am, really. I don't know if that's good or bad.

Ahmed and Ruslan and I, we used to go into the mountains and just disappear for days. Drugs and sex and killing and eating wild animals if we got hungry. Sleeping wherever we fell. Like wolves. Like wolves. And some days it's not Mikel and his trendy city and health insurance that I want more than life itself, but Ahmed and heroin and my rifle and the mountains. Where I didn't have time to think. Where nothing else mattered. Just compassion. Sostradanie.

I've seen so many people die. Slowly. Quickly. So much death. My whole life. Just so much death. What the hell makes him think I need to be protected from his?

The thing about drug use, and drinking, and shit, is not that it's irresistible. It's that sometimes you see no compelling reason not to. I left school when I was thirteen. Never had a job. Sell my body when there's bills to pay. (can't do that shit no more, it would kill Mikel.) What shining future am I saving myself for? I'll never go to college. I'll never make any films. Probably never see Russia again, never go back home. And you know, I've stopped giving a damn. Years of hopelessness and you stop caring, you know? I don't give a shit about my work. I don't give a shit about having my own factory job, apartment in the bad part of town with bars on the windows. I don't give a shit about Russia. I don't give a shit about anything but Mikel anymore. I realized that. Like the night before he left me.

The other night a thought came into my mind, needle to my vein, trying to make up my mind whether to let it push in - "It's okay. It's okay. It's all right. You didn't make it. It already happened. It turns out you didn't make it. You can let go now. It's all right."

And I felt a little bit more free.

моя работа, моя работа, работа ...

oh, and here is some DDT, because I just found out the other night that angela likes them.