Literary Orphans

Devotion by Charles J. March III

Some hypothesize that it’s a disease. Others opine, “Nigga please!” While our ebony brothers to the east are enslaved by/into China White men, our ashen heroine sisters to the west pound black tar pavement in order to fill the/their void, per the comorbid, karmic, dualistic twist.

It’s also maintained to be a brain disorder, but the psych ward orderlies told me that everything was in order, and that it was all going according to a cosmic measure. I did, however, have to take the pathological approach down the mesolimbic pathway, which left me in limbo; but I wound up receiving a supernatural reward at the end of it all.

Some think of it as an inveterate dependency, but I ultimately believe it to be a transcendent resplendency.

Now, I don’t wish to paint you a mural of my bloody withdrawal, or be repulsive by telling you of my compulsive comportment; I just desire to unfold my notion of devotion.

We began by being born into a seraphically chosen family, not by choice, or at least not consciously; just like nobody deliberately desires to be an addict. But it is indeed a fixed cross that many of us must stomach, as we must all pass through our respective hell in order to be respected in heaven. Our bugaboo is taboo, but we’re not intrinsically bad; we’re just people with problems, who need a supernal panacea.

As the sphere spins, we sin, while some of the pharmaceutical companies grin—but such is life, and such is love—which is akin to The One above.

Damn The Man for developing the opioid epidemic, and the mania incorporating it.

What started as a passion, turned into an obsession; but at least we had the fire in our hearts to begin with, so we could once again find our way back to a standard level of excitement when we came out the other side.

Perhaps I got the junky genes from my progenitors; but my Mother, Barbara Jean, was always there to support me like one’s favorite pair of jeans. And when we first suckled our Mother’s morphine tinged tit, Mother Nature set us up for a lifelong quest of/for dependence. But peradventure the quest has its roots in love. The music that our parents made was a bittersweet symphony, but when we look back—it makes us shed a single, chill filled tear—for we know that the music was/is beautifully deep and sincere.

Maybe that’s the juxtaposed paradox of why we seek out OxyContin, in order to subliminally mimic oxytocin; but don’t designate me dopey for suggesting that dopamine is a synthetic form of infatuation; because though a skeptic may say that love is just neuroplastic chemicals, we need to know this fake feeling for when the “real” thing comes along. Just like the naloxone in suboxone, we tried to block ourselves from what we really wanted, as to not get hurt anew. We tried replacement therapy, but nothing can replace ardor, which is said to be the best medicine in the world. Eventually, the antagonist turned into a terrorist, and made us question if we should ever, under any circumstance, give romance another chance. But the devotion of our kinsfolk, benefactors, and friends, showed us that love can withstand anything; which buttressed our bond, and made us beholden them/it all the more. They now let us come home, and our relationships have been brought back to homeostasis.

Even in our darkest moments, we discovered that we were devoted to ourselves and others, for we didn’t take the easy way out; and as such—chose to slaughter ourselves slowly, aiming for a miracle. And hope did spring eternal, as we are currently able to connect to the source more than ever before. The wonder, now, is that we are capable of helping others who have suffered our selfsame difficulties. The identical environmental factors that factored into the addiction equation, are now the aforementioned ones that drive us to deliver the/our environs.

Complications make the planet go round, and even though we may never be able to muffle our noodles around this; it’s like our digestive system, in that we don’t need to comprehend its complex chemical reactions in order to appreciate a pleasant repast.

O Typekey Divider

Charles J. March III is a Chicago native, and settled in Orange County, CA., three years ago, after having bounced around the country for the past eight years with the Navy and Marine Corps as a hospital corpsman. Since recently completing his service obligation, he is now trying to finish his health care degrees, and plans on pursuing creative writing. He is a dog Dad to a female French Bulldog, and he enjoys an active, altruistic, artistic, culinary, and spiritual lifestyle. This is his first publication. 

O Typekey Divider

–Art by Piotr Kaczmarek