Adderall Nighter

A poetic, verbose prose account which attempts to use imagery and continuous, lyrical style to capture the emotions accompanying my early experiences with a now-replaced prescription drug.

There's a monster inside me.  A foul beast which never dies, nor ever will.  A caged, repressed part of my being, straining against ephemeral shackles with dark dilated pupils, silently screaming to be released - and wreak mad havoc upon the world.  To my misfortune, or fortune maybe, it has kept quiet for most of my life, docile and comfortably hidden.  Or perhaps back then it didn't exist, serendipitously spawned in a cauldron of delinquent curiosity, adjusting its vision to incredulous blinking at its emergence from the chemical broth.

            But now it lives, and roars for freedom.  Cold, callous, claustrophobic; it clamors from the depths of a subconscious cave.   Breaking bricks, bashing bars, loosening the bolts of a primal prison.  Yet mysteriously, still self-restrained, with artful awareness and subtle cunning; a calculating demon, awaiting the opportune moment to strike.  The spark of a dose upon my tongue, like a hint of blood in the nostril of a shark, immediately awakens the impatient beast.  Before the drug finds its way into my blood, I feel the rush, and my monster rushes forth.  As the sensation slowly grows, tiny tendrils of euphoria which creep through my consciousness, the ravenous beast works itself into carnal frenzy.  With posture perfected, pencil poised, paper planted, an insatiable alter-ego begins its hunt, methodically attacking each task within reach. 

            This catalyst gives it focus, gives me focus; and energy and clarity and will.  Importance drains from the trite concerns of the living, replaced by an unyielding drive for achievement.  The sinister serpent whispers to me, imparting cynicism upon my evolving sentiments, like sediment on a primordial seabed.  How stupid they are, wasting their precious time with paltry preoccupations: fashion, and food, and fun; and each other.  Oh mighty mortals! mindlessly thrashing in a mire of meaningless sensation.  I have discovered a higher path, been gifted with clarity and vitality, impervious to the hindrances which weak men enjoy.  Nothing matters but the task at hand, off a long, looming list of demands; undaunted, brimming with confidence and vigor, the unrelenting beast strikes out at each kill.  It will work dutifully, will scribble and draft and calculate and revise, until all prey has been consumed, or the delusions and stupor of a sleepless search overcome its deadened senses. 

            I toil amongst mountains of paper, monuments to the night's industrious acts.  Weary and worn, yet undeterred, the hunter within me lumbers onward.  Each task a greater labor than the last, each victim more resilient than before, the beast persistently prowls the forest.  From a stomach swollen with remains of the slain, signals of satiety spiral up its spine.  But the scent of those still to suffer lingers, their very existence mocking my obstinate animal, increasingly inciting its desire to kill.  Head heavy, hand cramped, wits dull and eyelids drooping, my once-hardened resolve slowly softens as the beast realizes its reign is ending.  A sloppily tilled trench of churned dirt and crushed brush trails the weakening monster as it drags its sagging body along.  Irritable and chafed, pitiful, abject, the wretched beast makes its way back to its den.  Eyes scorched by ascending sun, it senselessly scorns the trees it passes, as I furtively belittle passing strangers.  Mere mortals! I derisively spit.  But self-derision, I woefully recognize; I'm becoming one of them.

            Trudging to the room that is my cave, beckoned by a Siren of solitude, like my monster I return to my den of slumber.  My mind regurgitates memories of the night's assignments; equations, graphs, chemical formulas, digesting the remains of my diligent deeds.  Like bits of bone and gore stuck to my monsters teeth, I lazily pick through my thoughts, waiting for sleep to consume me.  Upon completion of my metamorphosis back to mortal form, the worries of the world return to me: appearance, nutrition, girls; social obligations.  Insignificant, of course, I'm too tired to care.  And as my mind is finally freed to indulge sleep's sweet respite, so my hideous creature, pathetic now, is coaxed back into its recurrent restraints, relishing the rewards of a relentless quest; contentedly cuddled in a corner of its cage; resting, waiting, hidden and silent.

            Until a gathering group of prey summons it from slumber.  Till an unconquerable accumulation of academic requirements signals the call of duty.  Till the scent of blood activates its olfactory organs, and, revitalized and ravenous, it awakens.  Until I ingest the substance again, it sleeps; and I am human.

Author's Note

It's written as prose, but is more properly read as poetry, and probably should be labeled as such. I just, for some reason, have a stigma against unrhymed poetry written with broken lines. However, if you think it should be redefined as poetry, please say so.
Also, please suggest a genre, I am new to WritersCafe and have no idea what it would fall under.
Thanks for reading! It's dense, but, hopefully, to the right audience, very entertaining.

Reviews

[Evariste Galois]

It's definitely poetic, but does not have "metrical structure", so if you want to classify it as poetry it would likely have to fall under "free verse". This might be hard to swallow though seeing as you have "a stigma against unrhymed poetry", and most of the Free Verse genre (especially on this website) is just unrhymed, meter-less rambling. WritersCafe does offer a "monologue" option though, which would fit this piece well if you want to stick with calling it prose.


You may have heard of a little book called "The Elements of Style" by William Strunk & E.B. White. At first glance it looks like a "How To" manual for writing, but really it's more like a "How NOT to Write" manual. I understand writing is a creative, artistic act, but I think most of the advice in that book is good and generally hard to argue against. I'm going to appeal to a few specific pieces of advice for this review. I'll warn you, their tone is somewhat abrasive, but their suggestions are usually solid.

pg 72 "Do Not Overwrite: Rich, ornate prose is hard to digest, generally unwholesome, and sometimes nauseating. If the sickly-sweet word, the overblown phrase are your natural form of expression, as is sometimes the case, you will have to compensate for it by a show of vigor, and by writing something as meritorious as the Song of Songs, which is Solomon's"


pg 76 "Avoid fancy words: Avoid the elaborate, the pretentious, the coy, and the cute. Do not be tempted by a twenty-dollar word when there is a ten-center handy, ready, and able. Anglo-Saxon is a livelier tongue than Latin, so use Anglo-Saxon words. In this, as in so many matters pertaining to style, one's ear must be one's guide."


With those two suggestions in mind, I made some edits to your piece which you can compare with the original. These "edits" are not meant as "corrections", they are simply changes that might appease Mr. Struck/Mr. White:



There is a monster inside me. A beast which never dies, nor ever will. A part of my being that strains against shackles. With dilated pupils it screams to be released - to wreak its havoc on this world. To my misfortune, or fortune maybe, it has kept quiet most of my life, docile and hidden. Or perhaps then it did not exist but instead spawned serendipitously from a cauldron of delinquent curiosity. Blinking through the chemical broth, it emerged, perhaps, incredulous at its own birth.
And now it lives. And it roars for freedom. Cold, callous, claustrophobic; it clamors from a subconscious cave. Breaking the bricks, bashing the bars, loosing bolts of a primordial prison. And yet, in some way, self-restrained, with awareness and cunning; It is a calculating demon, awaiting the opportune.
The spark is a dose upon my tongue, like a hint of blood in the nostrils. Even before the drug finds my veins, I feel the rush, and my monster likewise rushes forth. As sensation grows, tendrils of euphoria creep through my consciousness, and the ravenous beast works itself up a carnal frenzy.
With posture perfected, pencil poised, and paper planted, an alter-ego begins its hunt. Methodical. Insatiable. Attacking each task in reach.
The catalyst gives it focus, gives me focus – and energy and clarity and will. Importance drains from trite concerns, replaced by the unyielding drive to achieve. Sinister, serpentine, it whispers to me, laying cynicism atop my sentiments, like sediment upon a seabed.
How stupid they are. Wasting precious time on the paltry. Their fashions, and food, and fun; and each other. Oh how mighty they are! Thrashing in a mire of meaningless sensation. I have a higher path, been gifted with clarity and vitality, impervious to the hindrances weak men enjoy. Nothing matters but the task at hand – one among list of looming demands; undaunted, brimming with confidence and with vigor, the unrelenting beast strikes out for each kill. It will be dutiful; diligent. It will scribble and draft and calculate and revise, until all prey is consumed, or until stupor born of sleeplessness overcomes its deadened senses.
I toil among mountains of paper, monuments to the night's industry. Weary, worn, yet undeterred, the hunter within lumbers forward. Each task more labor than the last, each victim more struggle than before, and still the beast prowls the forest.
From a stomach swollen with the slain, signals of satiety grow in spirals up the spine. But the scent of those still to suffer lingers. Their existence mocks my animal, inciting its desire to kill.
But head heavy and hand cramped, wits dull and eyelids drooping, my hardened resolve softens, and the beast finds its reign ending. Churned dirt and crushed brush trail the weakening beast as it drags its sagging body. Now irritable and chafed, pitiful, abject, the wretch makes its way to the den. Eyes scorched by the rising light, it senselessly scorns all it passes, just as I scorn the passing strangers. Mortals! I derisively spit. But self-derision, I recognize; I am becoming one of them.
Drawn to the room that is my cave, beckoned by a Siren of solitude, I, like the monster, drag myself to the den of slumber. My mind regurgitates the night's assignments; equations, graphs, chemical formulas, digesting the remains of my diligence. Like bits of bone and gore stuck to the monster’s teeth, I pick through my thoughts, waiting for sleep to consume me.
The metamorphosis completes, and back to mortal form, the worries of the world return: appearance, nutrition, girls; social obligations. Insignificant, of course, because I'm too tired to care. And as my mind is finally freed to indulge in sleep's respite, so my creature, pathetic now, is coaxed back to its restraints, relishing the rewards of its quest; cuddled in a corner of its cage; resting, waiting, hidden and silent.
Until gathering prey summons it from slumber. ‘Til an the accumulation of academics signals the call to duty. ‘Til the drop of blood activates olfactory senses. ‘Til it awakens once more. Revitalized and ravenous.
But until I ingest the substance, it sleeps; and for now I am human.




This is one of the most unapologetic reviews I've ever given, but I have a feeling you can take it. The critiques aren't meant to disparage or discourage you, and you are free to ignore them, but I did put some honest thought into them while writing, so hopefully you will take them seriously. If you enjoy harsh reviews then I'm happy to review anything else you submit.