I am somewhat disappointed
in myself and those old habits.

I did not intend
to drink or smoke
or take stimulants
last night. Alas, my former zealotry took me by surprise.

I was happy enough just being around my people,
Talking with them. There was no need for me
to be as concerned,
To champion
the cause.

This I regret
for I was far too drunk
when the 4-Fluoroethylphenidate
came out, and its nuances were lost on me.

The human cannot return to nature,
There is too much beyond us which we cannot return.
Signs, tools, and above all, promise.
To promise is to prescribe a duty, and offer one's reputation
as collateral. It implies trust, it assures
that one will act in accordance with their word.

What should make this anything other
than an elaborate set of signs
used to measure
the value of other humans?
An intricate social tool, as it were.

In promise there is a prescription of duty
towards another, and an invocation of hope.
In promise there is subordination, implied trust.

The thought struck me,
How long it has been.
How long it seems,
But I wonder

whether it's that
you learn to live with a cleft heart
or that you replace a part here and there
until it no longer resembles whatever you once felt.

Memory's at the chasm. Guilt,
I wish I'd been better. Say I look better. D'I feel better?
What to do other than write ode to GABA, one for the Irish.

Earlier I took a low dose of phenibut,
Three-quarters of a gram,
Perhaps equivalent to a pint.
Mild result, tired now, my eyelids
are heavy with the experience of it all.

I wondered a lie, it is my head.

The culture within me seeks solace in
substance, and I wonder
why my mental health won't stay wholesome.

It is hard to hear that genuine, innocent voice
anymore, to hear it put words to my mouth.
My head pounds with nervous aftershock.

I was quite manic today. It is clear to me
I was not in control of myself

and would do well to seek help, or administer something
that'd reconcile with myself with
these sways.

Hatred. My heart burns with it.
How can I forgive myself?
Part of me
wants to watch it burn.
Is it okay to write that?
To admit to living
in a world of one's own

sins and torment;
A survival technique:
To look toward a dark future
spent living in the past.

I'll not shy away from
reasoned discourse, nor
should I go willingly into my pain
thinking it'll save me.

The next day I took a single milligram
of 4-chlorodiazepam.

Sometimes I'm afraid
if I were to be gentle with myself
I would break.

I write down this thought
I had in the shower, and after sitting with it
realize I'm not broken.

Old friends, forgotten habits.
Last night I drank some things:
100μg of flubromazolam,
100mg of tianeptine,
And cream soda, among other things.

I quest, I'd venture, that sense of wonder.
I'll find answers.
Seeking to cultivate my contentedness; that existential

Part of me is gone, stolen
from my psyché. I lost my tribe

and with them, my raison d'etre.
I lost my anthem
when I settled for normalcy,
When I stopped believing I was special.
When I ceased questing for ventures curious, and

considered sated my cravings most fiendish.
I lost my anthem
when my writing diminished,
When my exercise withered,
When my drug use slipped
and my demons pleaded.
I lost my anthem

and it's left me
plenty of memories
I can no longer pronounce
without a tone of condescension.
Those misarticulated metaphysics have
timbres' as junkiesque.
That'll suffice for a sentence in G-twn. Heaven.