I meet the people who will die soon from overdose, or from a bullet to the back of the head, or from AIDS, or quietly in jail. They fall asleep while they talk to me because they just don’t give a damn. Society gave up on them a long time ago and they gave up on themselves even sooner. They laugh when I ask for their fathers’ names but at the same time they have six children they’ve never met and never will.
And legalizing all drugs will solve some of the problems. Addicts will not spend their lives in jail but will be treated and some will come out and see life for what it could be, the way they saw life when they were children rather than as something they need to endure between highs. And the drug dealers will be forced to find something else to do. And the police won’t spend all its resources staring at street corners but will actually work to make the streets safer from violent crime… I don’t know what I’m saying anymore. I love this city; don’t get me wrong, but going back to work after a two-day weekened takes away the illusion. Here I am with my unborn child and my Honey and my doggies and my house and my mortgage and should we take the carpet out in the guest room and what do I do about the poison ivy in the backyard and the drycleaner messed up the clothes again and Comcast costumer service department sucks. And here is a generation of people who won't live to see forty.
There’s an all-encompassing truth hidden there for me. Between all the filth and the fury there’s something begging to be understood. Maybe it’ll make me get out of my shell and devote my free time to volunteer work or to spread the message of drug-law reform or prison reform or public education reform. Maybe it’ll make me see the unity of the human race in its collective pain and beauty.
Or maybe I’ll eventually get a new job and forget about it all.