I’m here again. Every night, I’m here. I swore I wouldn’t be, time and time again, every goddamn night. I had promised myself that it would stop, but those shallow vows to myself ring through every twisted memory of past mid nights, and mean nothing to me now. Back at square one, my thirst is torturous. It stirs inside of me, an agonizing restlessness that has proven impossible to ignore. I fear that the relentless, swelling lust for this one fix will soon boil over like water in a heated pot, along with my sanity. It wouldn’t matter what else I did, for I knew that any attempt to compensate for my overwhelming desire would only result in gut wrenching disappointment, guaranteed to fall short of the complete satisfaction that this one thing will provide. My hands twitch, anxiety pulsing through my veins like some wretched venom. Nothing could possibly compare, as much as I’d like to believe it wasn’t so.

As creatures of habit, we rely on those things that we have grown accustomed to, that we have learned to depend upon for a sense of well being. That’s all we really want. How remarkably easy it is to fall into habits, even those which are so obviously self destructive, but immensely difficult to break. A cold shiver runs down my spine. I stare at the pattern on the ceiling in a sort of trance, as if I could find some distraction from the nagging itch in the cracked paint above me. I had memorized the placement of those bumps and ridges by now. It pained me to remember the days before that decision I had made, that one fateful idea that I had foolishly acted on. Back then, the ceiling was just a ceiling. It received a mere thoughtless glance before I fell into peaceful, uninterrupted sleep. Had I only known at the time what a blissful freedom that was. Now that same ceiling is a dreadful reminder of my cravings, every night it sprawls across my field of vision as I lie awake, haunting me. The walls are encroaching. They’re suffocating me. I’m trapped in a nightmare.

I close my eyes, hoping that some higher power will save me in this moment of weakness, but of course I’m only kidding myself. I search my soul for the willpower to be strong, but not tonight. I know it’s done. Once again, like so many nights before, I feel my chest sink in defeat. One more time, just this last time. I can’t live like this. I sit up slowly, the hairs on my neck erect from the cutting air. I unearth myself from the blankets that held me to my mattress, begging me to stay. I don’t hesitate anymore. I silently crawl out of bed, sharp pangs of regret shoot through my body as the pads of my bare feet reach the ground. I’m walking to the door with a heavy heart.

My hand freezes as it clasps the brass handle, as if my body was entirely detached from my wildly racing mind, trying everything in it’s power to protect against it’s corrupt master. I am highly ashamed of myself, in what this has become, but that disappointment hardly matched the guaranteed satisfaction that I know is soon to overwhelm my senses. I know exactly where to find it. My eyes focus, I have tunnel vision as I move swiftly through the dark corridor. My heart is racing with nervous excitement. Every part of my being in total submission to this gripping urge, a release that exhales from every nerve, every molecule. Here it is. My kryptonite. I reveal the divine substance from that familiar silver sheath. This is the point of no return. I dive in, indulging in my deepest desire.

I need that late night poptart.