Is it the “White Powder”?

He fell down with a crash. He is my fried and if he falls, with a plate full of eatables, smearing
himself all over, what am I supposed to do? What do they expect a friend, like me, to do? Well I’m
expected to laugh, laugh till my stomach starts to pain like heel. Laugh in such an uncivilized way that
the party looks at me in disgust, treating me a man from Paleolithic age.
Why am I silent then? Why am I so indifferent? Why am I so grave and intense in my expressions?
Why am I not affected by the party’s music, why is the food not appealing me? What in me is bringing
this cataclysm of anguish? Why are my lips numb? Why aren’t they yelling like my heart is?
What is the deafening noise inside me all about? Is it the flinch, the sleeplessness, the drink? Is
sleep taking over me? Why can’t I sleep then? Why can’t I feel rest even when I didn’t sleep for two
days? Oh why am I feeling like death? Is my doom approaching?
Everything around me is so scary and awful. Will I feel pain if I stab my heart thousand times? Will
I bleed if I slit my veins? Will I die craving of powder?
Why am I drowning in the swamp of reverberations? Why are the echoes shrill enough to rip open
my bosom? Why am I feeling so much pain? I need the powder