Dig.
It's what you do.
You start digging with that first taste of beer.
Icy cold from the tap of the keg.
You like the feeling but don't like the hangover.
You toke every now and then, but that's if-y at best.
Sometimes it's good stuff, sometimes it's skunk weed.
You're offered acid.
You know it's bad, but there is something irresistible about it.
You'll never get to experience the power of it again.
For the next six hours you hide, naked and afraid, in the woods behind your best friend's house.
Living the nightmare.
But you need to keep the feeling going.
Life is just too boring without it.
So you dig some more.
You learn the universal language, ask the right questions.
There is always someone around to help fill the need.
And you do need it.
Life is just too hard without it.
Dig.
You dig through lines of coke.
Dig through hashish.
You find yourself digging through your mother's purse.
You have to get your next high.
You meet a girl.
She parties like you.
Match made in heaven.
Then there are three of you.
You don't know why the baby cries all the time.
You need something to help you deal with it.
So, you dig out your best acting skills and fool the emergency room doctor.
Oxy script in hand, you make your way to the local pharmacy.
But oxy is a fiendish drug.
You need it more and more.
You miss your son's first birthday.
But he's too young to understand.
Waiting at the bus station for some guy who has it all.
You dig the trench that separates you from the rest of the world.
You dig. Dig. Dig.
And when you're done, they close the casket and toss all of that dirt back over you.
They say a prayer over the hole that you dug, and they walk away.
They whisper how you're at peace now.
And, who knows, maybe you are.