My name is Francis; I am an addict, one of the ten percent. Powerless, control eludes me, insatiable, Francis de Appetite.

I would observe some of my fellows, puzzled at their ability to exercise moderation and self-control, how did they do that?

Meanwhile I buried myself in excess, asking; Is this about pain or abandonment, is this about low self-worth, maybe this is my response to a tortured childhood.
I wrestled with idea that I had a genetic predisposition, did I inherit this from my absent alcoholic father, was I taught this by my addict mother, or am I just bad, stupid and weak.

By now my entombment was near complete, I howled in desperation through the remaining gaps “I will die, and soon, unless this stops.” to any who may listen. Eventually I did get an answer, an invitation of sorts. How I wish that god had come into my life, how I would love to be able to say, “I saw the light.” But in truth I barely crawled into an idea, an idea that said I have a disease, an idea that said I could recover, an idea that asked me surrender to that idea!

Not such a bad idea as it transpired.

Things began to change, I tricked my appetite. I could not get enough of recovery; and thus immersed, I moved toward life. I strove to become one of the normal souls, using a simple set of guidelines to keep me safe, I roamed my world in a bubble of 24 hours and begun to build a life, to get the things that had thus far, eluded me.

Years would pass, I marvelled at how well I did. With 20 years of continuous sobriety accumulated I had donned the accoutre of wellness and achievement. Building for the future, a late starter in a hurry.

The pain; however, crept back disguised as circumstance. That sense of separation returned as, one by one, my efforts to secure a place in the world came undone.

This idea, now seemed somehow ineffective, almost taunting in its cant, it was as if it did not fit my current form, I was broken and this idea, it seemed, was the wrong tool.

Acquiescent and becoming enveloped in sadness, my body revealing the outcomes of past excess; I channelled my fading energy into creative pursuit. Oddly the responses to these efforts were a clue to the true nature of my predicament. Spurred on by positive feedback, I shared another tune and it got likes and positive comments easing my pain, morphine-like, art as currency. I of course, waded in, wanting More.

I wrote more, I showed more, I discovered I could use just words, Eureka! A new source of supply, whatever it was, I wanted More.

My name is Francis; I am an addict. My drug of choice is more. It always has been, more of anything!

Is there is more to this than meets the eye?

Where before I had seen myself as one of the ten percent, an addict, for whom control is not possible, I now realised I was a just specialist, with a limited repertoire in the pursuit of more.

Looking around me I saw nothing but greed.

I am one of the multitude that is relentlessly chasing more in a world organised by mankind’s infectious addiction to more. Upgrade, stock trade, war made, oil fuelled, More More More, Me Me Me.

At very turn, under every unjust rock, lies a trace of avarice. Heed the tale of the Golem, or is the rampage to far underway?

My addiction hurt those I loved and near destroyed me; however, mankind’s addiction is far less discriminating.

We are mankind you I, we crave power and yet are powerless in the face of it, willingly engaging in the collaboration and enabling process, or being stomped and crushed by it’s onslaught.

There is no middle ground here, either oppressed or oppressor. If you think your neither then you are one of the silent enablers of oppression and by default, an oppressor.

I find that I am one amongst an addicted species, but now I can no longer hide in the collective inward focus of the specialist’s club, nor be wrapped in the comfort and certainty of the, or any, idea.

What steps, what solutions, could offer mankind (or me) recovery?
Who will be mankind’s sponsor?
Where is our role model?
Does mankind need to reach rock bottom in order recover? (If so, surely we have been there several times over)
Who will hear mankind’s belated plea for help?

We have no fellowship, we, are no fellowship.

We are a species that feeds on greed and denial, the ultimate dysfunctional family that may well die alone as it continues to gorge, incapable of satiety or insight.

There can be no…, there is no saviour for mankind that is not composed of mankind itself. Neither book nor messiah, no fervent faith or fundamentalism, no popular passive loved up revolution.

Who or what will confront this collective denial? Expose the sham of voting for change, the monumental rationalisation of greed as good, of the inalienable right to kill to keep, to get more.

If not we, the cells of this rogue monster then who?

Could we be the antidote, the anti-chaotics, the answer to infection by Bacterium Avidity that suffuses our species?

Or will we succumb, and perish, mankind no more?


Written by Francis de Aguilar© February 2015



I wonder how many likes this will get?



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