John had watched his community crumble over time as cultures and people shifted. As buildings fell into disrepair. As people aged themselves in silent despair, and the drugs got harder, and the money got better. John compartmentalized that he was responsible for a new gravestone here or there, saw it as a necessary chaos to truly enjoy life, not something that he wanted or liked. Because life on the whole was not always about being enjoyed, but being survived, and finding enjoyment in that primal act of survival.
Flies would eventually die when the warmth turned to Winter, and his problems were like flies to him, buzzing around him and waiting for the right time to die. But this was also how John regarded his brain cells. He remembered talking to an old friend about it, of which they would have long stretches of marijuana, nicotine, and heroine-induced evenings, how there must certainly be bad parts of the brain due to its complexity, and that drugs were as much the answer as any form of healthy living.
“Revolutions happen to make society better.” John would say. Sprawled out on the couch with a needle in his left arm and a late night host on television he didn't like, while he must've been two days without showering, and smelled like roadkill. His friend always seemed to look up in quick glances, in a kind of closeted disgust that John tried to ignore: the nicotine-yellow stain conquering a patch of the white, popcorn ceiling above his head where he gave most of his pessimistic diatribes about politics, religion, and the world in a five mile radius. “Drugs used by responsible adults are just a revolution of the mind.”
John's memory seemed to have become more fragmented, or maybe the conversations were just too deep. He remembered a dream he had back when he wanted to make something more positive of his life. There was a relative, aging and beginning-- at whatever random stage in life that one does, to seriously think about death.. it lead her to become “spiritual”. She wanted to help her brother, found some strange man who said he wasn't part of the church, but he knew rites which were synonymous with what the Catholic exorcist was doing and thought that would help. John thought it was all a joke, sure, he had the money to pay this man, a meager sum to him, but lying to the quack and giving him nothing was its own reward.
John went back to hazy thoughts of his apartment, not even sure if he was there now, not sure if he was awake or asleep.
“Symbols patterned through the ancient history of foreign civilizations, kept hidden by older generations until they were forgotten.” He said to himself.
John was beginning to feel more lucid. He had been talking for a long time with the needle in his arm and noticed that his left hand was losing feeling. There was a loaded submachine gun in his other hand. On the other end of the couch was just the rancid skeleton of a dead cat. He must've been talking to himself for hours, and the stain on the ceiling was driving him crazy, but nobody else was in his apartment.