The melodies you played so long ago in your old guitar, the songs you sang to me in the distance.
You gave new life to old songs and created some new ones, because there wasn't any lyrics that could describe our long meetings at night, playing with the moon and the stars.
You didn't even have to sing out loud: I could hear your heart humming from afar. In the distance, I hummed with you, and I sang a couple of songs for you, trembling voice, closed eyes. I knew the lyrics by heart.

How bold you seemed, singing out of tune, but you sang for me, you were giving more than your voice to me in those notes, full of trust. I listened to every word you performed, and I knew to guess the words you didn't say, those that were hidden between the lines.
I listened to your songs so many times that even without listening I still remember. The song that was full of tears, the one full of promises, the love songs that you sang so many times, they all said I love you, I miss you. I memorized all the warm smiles they hide, the sighs and the longing.
I still played them in my heart until this morning, but now all the songs have died. One by one they were silenced with the memories they brought. I tried to hummed them once again, but the tones where just not there. I couldn't find the notes, nor the smiles that laid within.

Should I sing them a mourning song, as a valedictory pledge? The silence reigns in here, and every song has died.

I just finished reading a book called Confessions of an English Opium-Eater by Thomas de Quincey. It's an autobiographic essay written by the author in 1821 where he narrates how he became addicted to opium.

This is one of the first books addresing addictions and it became an inspiration to other authors who wrote about human torments, such as Baudelaire and Poe. My personal believe is that the cynical and even "upbeat" tone of the author during his recollection takes away the real suffering that the writer had to go through and before his addiction. He is an unreliable narrator. He almost dismisses the fact that he had serious episodes of what he calls "melancholy" but we today call it depression. 

He says he started consuming opium when he was a university student, because he had a strong stomach ache and a classmate recommended him the drug to ease the pain. At the beginning he consume it as a recreational drug and he even stated that consuming opium each weekend in the amount he did couldn't be more dangerous than drinking on weekends.
But then he became consuming it EVERY DAY NON STOP! He spent 10 years consuming opium in different quantities and ways. 

He narrates the pleasure the opium gave him and how it errased all his pains, and it gave him this new perspective on life and it was the best thing that could happen to him and it was perfect.

Then he narrates how it absolutely debilitated his body and mind and he couldn't focus his attention on anything. He couldn't sleep well because his dreams where filled with nightmares. He doesn't mention it in his book, but I learned that he and his family had to struggle financially because he was unable to be responsible with money.

At the end of the book he implies to have stopped consuming and even that it wasn't that hard really, but then in an epilogue written a year after the publication of the book he says he actually stopped consuming opium everyday, but that he continued consuming it. Only he reduced the dosis. And reading about de Qincey's life you can learn that the continued consuming for decades after the publication of this book.

And then qustions arise. 

I wondered at the fact that de Quincey spent 10 YEARS! consuming the drug non-stop, but aren't many of us as addicted to something as him?

How many of us are addicted to caffeine, tobacco, weed, spending money, smartphones, sweets, other drugs? Many people have to have the TV on all day everyday. Isn't that a kind of addiction? And what about being on the phone all day? And the people that can't spend one morning without coffee because their bodies need the caffeine? I myself are seriously addicted to sweets. I daily crave sweets and it's very difficult for me to spend one day without eating at least a cookie, even if I try.

What makes us addicted to something, even when we know it's harmful?

What can we expect from us, a society that is deeply addicted to things to comfort themselves from "mental pains"? I believe addictions try to cover "holes" in our needs. Do you need attention or affection? Be addicted to smartphones. Do you need company because you are afraid of solitude? Tv is the answer. Are you restless? Smoke. Do you want endorphines? Be like me and eat as many sweets as your blood allows. Do you want to feel that you belong to a group? Smoke weed so you can brag about it and feel special about it.
But do we have to do it? Can't we tackle the real issue behind our addictions? Can't we self-analyse us and find and face our fears and needs without it?



Edit: Some typos.

Bodies have always seemed ugly to me.

Bodies with their meters of skin, guts, meat and their weird smells, colors, bumps, and illnesses that can't be controlled.

Bodies are ridiculous and awkward.

Media try to pretend bodies are sexy and alluring when they're in bed but they're sweaty. Sticky. Scared of failure. Even more awkward, when sprawled in bed you try to find the best position to love, after a cramp in your leg.

Bodies are nothing more than tons of muscles wrapped in the clothes you wear to try and look cuter than you really feel.

At what extent does your heart dress your partner's body of beauty when you make love? At what extent do you dress your own body of beauty when you see yourself with your eyes, or when you see yourself reflected in the lusting eyes of your partner? 

How are bodies enfolded by the substance of the soul?

I used to run away and hide. It didn't matter where I hide, you would always find me sooner than what I've expected. Why did I run? I was just scared. Why was I scared? People scared me, bonds scared me. They still do.
You found me every time and one day you hugged me and told me to never hide again, that I could find shelter in your arms.
But sometimes I would grew scared and run away. Not so far away, so you could find me and hold me tight in you arms, and whisper that everything was Ok, that the monsters weren't real, and if they were, you would be my knight.
Still there were times when I hide. But you knew where I was and didn't bother to go after me anymore. You knew I wasn't too far and could find my way back if I wanted to. You just hugged me once I returned and patted by back till I stopped crying because I came back still scared.
You just got tired and used to your little scaredy cat. Why would you go looking for a kitty that already knows the way home, and knows where to find food and shelter.

But you know, I still am scared of the same things I used to. But now I have you, and have so many other things that became my shelter and my peace.
But then there are these rare times when I get so scared that I can't move, but once I can, I run to a place where nobody (but you) can find me. I crouch in a dark place, embracing myself and waiting for you to say "I knew you were here! Come with me and hide in my chest instead". Only you already grew tired of chasing me and no matter how close, how obviously hidden I am, waiting, expecting for the reassuring warmth of your arms. You will not come after me anymore.
And after all these years I've learned that the main reason for me running away was to find that someone could show me, as you did, that I cared, that it was important that I was found. That the little cat could find a home that wasn't in the back alleys. 
But it seems that you won't come anymore.

Once I read that humans could fly, only not for so long. Our little attempt to fly is called jumping. Just a leap upwards and we defeat gravity.
Gravity, that it's not only the force of attraction that the Earth has to pull us down. It's also the force of all that is dull that press us down.
The procedure to jump starts with a sudden thrust. You give your body a push upwards and loose contact with the soil. You are on your own, and fly for a couple of seconds.
If you want to fly a little longer (just a second more), you run until you pick up momentum and give a leap to the air. 
And you fly.
Why, you can even feel the force of the air against you when you fly!
But you know, there's no bird that flies forever, so there's no jump that lasts long.
Sooner than later that energy you gathered to break Gravity runs down and then the jump ends.
You are back on solid ground again, wired, as if you're a tree rooted to the soil, and can't fly. Till you give that leap again.

But you always, always know at the bottom of your heart, that the jump will end.
But you will always, always know that it felt so good to be a bird for just one second or two.

(Is it stronger the desire of becoming a bird again, or the fear to fall?)