He injected the drug into his veins. There was no pleasure now. Just short-lived satisfaction. Real short-lived.

He plunged headlong. He jumped. Into memories.

The air blew across his frame as he stuck his face out of the driving window. Ah yes, memories.

When he had had power over the drug. Whenever he wanted, how ever he wanted, it pleasured him. It had to pleasure him.

Not now no more. It had become a need. His absolute dependence had killed lady pleasure. He could not live without it. It held power over him. He had no power to choose. He was a slave to his need.

It never waited on him anymore. It never allured him. The drug was a medicine to keep him alive. Not a nymph to entertain him.

Not make him dream.

Not make him dream.

It was an escape from things that left scars.

Not a journey into a land of adventure.

It was to erase blotches.

Not delve into colours that had no boundaries.

It was his master not his slave.

It stole his ingenuity, his wit, him.

He was a miserable wretch.

My addict.

Humanity is asleep, concerned only with what is useless, living in a wrong world. Believing that one can excel this is only habit and usage, not religion. this 'religion' is inept..do not prattle before the People of the Path, rather consume yourself. You have an inverted knowledge and religion if you are upside down in relation to Reality. Man is wrapping his net around himself. A lion (a man of Way) bursts his cage asunder.

Excerpt from The Sufis