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He started thinking about letting it go but then as soon as the idea came into his head, he craved it. He wanted it. He wasn't even sure why. He wasn't desperate, he wasn't cranky, he was just addicted to it. He felt the need growing slowly. Even if he wanted to stop, he was sure no that he couldn't; not without being forced anyway. It was an instinctive thing that he relied on now. Like smoking a cigarette.
His friends would tell him that he had a problem. I'm not that bad. I do other stuff. They never really gave him a chance. They never took him seriously. Some might say that that was the reason he started so strong in the first place. Or maybe thats just what he thought. He was confused sometimes. He couldn't decipher between his mind and reality anymore.
He was addicted. But it was emotional. There was nothing chemically binding him to the drug. It was happiness when it entered his lungs. It was like he was leveled out by it. When he wasn't on it, he was a catalyst of his former self. He was like a crack addict, always having to be occuppied by something. He would clean like he never would when he was stoned. He would turn in job applications in a professional way. However, it always seemed to end with the same thing. And he never learned.