A motivation to recreate himself anew. He laid in bed in his own withdrawal. His one night fast from his little fix. He promised himself, his best friend, his entire world that those pills would not be the master puppet. Today he would break the strings and thrive in his own true boy flesh and blood. But, wasn't that what he said yesterday? He used to believe they were so innocent, nestled in a nice orange pill bottle, oh once they were his little miracle pills! Mommy would yell, God would she ever yell, when little Timmy never did his homework, a blank fresh page never graced with a pencil. His teachers treated him as their own little failure, he shall be nothing more then a beggar on the street, they believe. He tried, by never was that good enough. But, one fateful day in his early childhood came those psychotropic pills in a shape of ovals and he became a machine, the circuits in his brain charged and turn like a mystical carousel, an antique grandfather clock with a new gear.


Alas, his little miracles only acted so sweet and generous to gain his trust, and then raped his mind of all the world's goodness and truth, leaving a paranoid shell that once was. Oh, those little pills pumped his heart full of blood at hyper speed and he believed the next thump would be his last. Didn't they once say that that the heart could only handle two billion thumpty-thumps? If his mother was out longer than she promised, images of a gory car accident with would replace the silly antics of a cartoon character.
What if God was dead? What if I fall asleep and cannot awake? Such questions for a little boy! Such uneeded paranoia! And the mystery would be why he swallowed those little oval demons each morning, why he enjoyed the cold palms and the giddy thunderstorm which brewed in his tummy.


He was tired most mornings, a drowsy creature with a foul frown. He was beginning to be fatigue even after he ate those demons. His grade in History frightened him into a semi-depression. Maybe, he believed, if he went without those pills, he would murder the depression, the forlorn, the fatigue and reshape himself not a victim of mind rape and drug abuse, but a person who could pull himself by his own will from the black and white and into a rainbow of pure thrill and happiness.



Today, he would ask the fairy and he'd become a real boy. Today would be the end of cold palms and muscle spasms. He had a motivation as he slowly emerged from his mattress and down a darkened hall. The clock beat steadily as did his heart, oh he would triple his life span without the Ritalin! For once he ate breakfast, a large feast, and hummed in the shower. God, if quitting was so easy, he queried, why did I not do this earlier?


He sat in the living room before school, watching little children Christmas programs and remembered that as a Christmas present teachers enjoyed giving exams. A slight wave of panic washed over him. He had studied, but could not recall. Who was the 15th president? What is an adverb? He fidgeted with the remote in his hand and bit hastily at his winter chapped lips. All great people have meet great challenges and it created them all the better. What doesn't kill you only makes you stronger, right? He peered from the sofa into the kitchen lit only by the strong winter Sun and the memories of teachers placing him on the freeway with a 'help me' sign and a mother whom called him a failure made him shiver with second thoughts. Didn't Albert Einstein have such a problem? He became a great genius! He did not take the pills. Or did he? The clock chimed 7:30 with a great poetic chirp. The pill bottle's child lock popped in the quiet kitchen. Why can't they have a druggie lock? With a dissolving self respect and regret, the demon dissolved in his stomach acid. He will become a real boy tomorrow, he promised. But, wasn't that what he said yesterday?