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My friend says: “I don’t understand that: another one fell today in the dorm, dead. Why anyone will be doing that thing to himself?”
So another flukka victim was rolled away on a stretcher. There will be no medical help, it was too late anyway and so in a few hours he will make a transfer to an undertaker's gurney and will be taken away. What is it, really, why young men, men who non-metaphorically speaking have nearly all their life ahead of them, prefer to smoke this stuff, which kills them here and there like flies? And they know what they are doing! That’s the hardest part to understand.

And so it goes. Camp is under lockdown all the time. Another died right on Christmas day. And two more fell three days before him. Is it really worth it? What kind of a new chemical juggernaut are we dealing with?

It is hard to comprehend, but let me try at least to find some analogies.

“Three lights off one strike is a bad luck!”

Remember that line? Those were black crows with cigars in an old animation. You don’t want to be the third one who lights up his cigar off the same match: it is

a bad luck. Do you know where this is coming from?

Erich Maria Remarque, “All Quiet on the Western Front.” Have you read this WWI novel? I did some forty years ago, so my memory might be a bit rusty, but as far as I can remember it must be coming from there. German soldiers couldn’t comprehend why these stubborn Yankees on the other side of the front line always light their cigarettes three or four in a row. They were doing it stubbornly in a darkness of Alsatian night, when every burning roll-up is seen for miles. It wasn't a big deal for a German sniper to set his sight and hit the third lighter square in the head. And yet they did it again, and again, and again. And who was there, down in cold trenches of Northern France'? Jims? (Check out the animation quote now.)

Actually, Remarque talks about it openly and with a grain of semi-bitter surprise: why did these black American soldiers do this? Didn't they know the rule that number three gets the bullet? Was it some type of a challenge to death?

They say this flukka is made out of bath salts. Right. Put it into bath then, or even better, down the toilet: but don’t let it into your lungs! Don't you hear the bullet flying across the no man land? This time it is your bullet! And you don’t even have to be the third lighter!

I'd say no matter how hard sometimes and unbearable life can be, it is still worth more than a few tokes of flukka. Yet, not all, I guess, agree with me, and this is our sad reality. Somebody is going to bite the dust right when I am writing this line.

As for my friend’s question, well, I don’t know what to say, I have np answer. Do you?

#Death. #Afterlife, #Heaven and Hell, #Literature, #art, #music, #culture and nature

 


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