Old Story/Old Poem

The subject of this post is rather stark. Having brushed up against devastating substance abuse within one's own home brings in a terrible sense of inclusion in a world that begs minute by minute to be dealt with. However, like the many who've tried over the decades (or even centuries) the way to approach the subject in a meaningful, relatable manner remains illusive.

Suffice it to say that Americans are among the wealthiest people on the face of the planet. Americans have advantages in every class of division over virtually every other similar group the world over. Yet, some Americans grind up prescription medicines, cook them in a spoon over an open flame, and inject these substances into their veins.

The description for why people do such things varies. The way it must seem to people in other parts of the world can perhaps be understood by the following:

Richard Cory

Whenever Richard Cory went down town,
We people on the pavement looked at him:
He was a gentleman from sole to crown,
Clean favored, and imperially slim.

And he was always quietly arrayed, 
And he was always human when he talked;
But still he fluttered pulses when he said,
"Good-morning," and he glittered when he walked.

And he was rich--yes, richer than a king--
And admirably schooled in every grace:
In fine, we thought that he was everthing
To make us wish that we were in his place.

So on we worked, and waited for the light,
And went without the meat, and cursed the bread;
And Richard Cory, one calm summer night,
Went home and put a bullet through his head.

by Edwin Arlington Robinson (1869-1935)