I am a person who can blend in among the material, the chemical, and the hidden. I would describe myself as a loud wind that brings with it peace and ambience but is deadly enough to destroy anything in its wake.

I try not to keep myself preoccupied in the physical world; it's too risky. The laws and the governments try to keep your consciousness locked within your body - I don't want to take that risk; I've seen with my own eyes what it does to people. People push the same shit around day in, day out, unknowing about life, dead brains, dead kids, and the rest.

With everything coming at you in every direction, you need something that's outside yourself, something intangible, something nobody can see or hear about, something between you and the divine. It can be anything; people are choosing all kinds of things to hide behind these days, but you have to keep moving forward. I interchange my direction weekly; I used to do it daily, but then the charity shops started to get really bad.

There are many times where I feel that I am walking among the rubble of a very intact but long-dead world, and every face is nothing but the reflection of my lazy hung-out will. Addiction as a sport was most designed and tailored for someone like me; the desire for something ahead in the distance, something dangerous and unpredictable, something that requires a sacrifice of health, my own fragility, weakness.

DIONYSUS was a fiend.

DIONYSUS was a junkie.

Yet, He was worshipped by all. Under supervision, the pendulum still swings.

The continual repulsions of thought. Misery in a marriage with the ambition to experience unattainable states that seize to exist in a nine-to-five. Talking to your family at a loving gathering, hanging out with old friends who all took different roads, the old girlfriend who remembers only the inadequate version of your old self. Somewhere far, somewhere in the distance, the lighthouse flickers in the dread of your night for your ship. Sail or capsize.

PILLS, LONELINESS AND DECEPTION

Benzos, feminine perfection and catatonic inducing love guides.

Pills will take much time from you and in my case they will warp the time and make you believe of that time you remember which never even happened. They can be sweet, soft and radiating in many ways ; they inhabit the spirit of a real mother, one that gives you compassionate love regardless of what madness you made at the ball. They are not like other drugs with obvious effects, you can hide efficiently in any circumstance just at long as your words reach the actual reality of whoever it is your talking to. There is even a little script as an addict that you can follow. I have come to understand that people are very simple, they want one or two things, they want to be made to feel powerful or they want to be made to feel that they are open to be understood and exposed without any personal insults. If you follow this script in any circumstance as an addict or not, so long as you are not completely dishevelled and take the cliché cracked out appearance, then you can function in any situation in this world, because the world itself is not so complicated.

Everywhere people are making decisions, some may be in positions that require making decisions for other people, but the game is the same game. It's just a whole lot of people making decisions about and for people. The world gives us a heart to burden with pain, it gives us a voice to express the burdens of the heart in beautiful and divine forms, it gives us a hope that we are real and we are presently alive with everything else in and out of the world we live in. Benzos take all of this away, they come into your life as a cunning, deceptive slut goddess, who lures you in slowly and before you realise its been years and you don't know yourself anymore. Your mirror is your courtroom and your madness is your only judge. Gods got his own plan for you, as above so below. You know what I mean?

Fuck, you don't even have a self; all you've become is the reactions of others. Your senses don't work anymore; they interpret a strange world, and in widened delirium, you can hear the past scratching at your memory. Scents can be impossibly strange; the smells of reality can be overwhelming. Your eyes see nothing but blurry static around the objects of reality. Your memory has been traded for a burial in hell. You're alone, and nobody understands. They see a withering being invisibly fighting something. That something is always and is only ever yourself. Why make him or her so big that you cannot walk beside them? If you be not your own guide, don't make your guide bigger than you.

As your writer, let me provide you with the reality of the addict in his tiresome addiction. Do you want to know what the addict feels like without being one? Read Naked Lunch by William Burroughs; the whole novel is the atmosphere of a creature against himself within a world that fits neither. The sounds of the novel, the beat of the ceremony of syllables, and the usage of language are the addict's mind. Endless torment of twisting sounds and spinning stomach behind burning eyes, grief over normalcy.

THE SUBLIME AND THE GALLOWS

It is known, without ever living in a world of drugs, survival, and dependency, that the one who lives it is "out of touch" with the world. I often viewed my life as a shamanic tribute to something greater than myself. Intoxicated since my adolescence, surviving through something intangible but on a long road without a reason, not knowing where and what it is that I was pursuing, but I could see the sheer size and length of the road in its lonely desolate distance.

In reflection, I am able to understand that I longed for suffering and that everything that was brought on was for the greater good of my future. Drugs shift perspective, and if you take enough, they will create new ones and bury the old. I was never built for drugs; I classed myself as an orderly individual with Apollonian principles; I hated cigarettes, and swearing disgusted me. In the West, we are told that those who take drugs are in pain; some classify us as scumbags who don't want anything from the world and would rather bum out our days in despair in a drug-fueled frenzy. This may be true, but I was never a lowlife, just a man trying to make peace with the shithouse we find ourselves in.

In my case, the battle that I fought was a spiritual one; I was swaying between many worlds, and drugs aided that transition for a time anyway. As the beat grew louder and the screams screamed further, the battle had been lost, and regained only when I got sober. Sobriety from pills and booze is a rough one; it isn't a quick fix like all the rest; it's been well over a year, and the war continues. Grounding yourself in the mundane and simple is an antidote to whatever sort of suffering you have to endure; we all must take our swords to something that only we know the location of.

If anyone finds these words to be of reassurance, then I commend you; your antidote belongs to you, and only you must find it through your own suffering. You may bring it on yourself; however, there is only a certain type of pain that may be brought on yourself consciously that gives you some accidental reward; it is not the same as the fateful pain that comes from somewhere outside of yourself. Only on this road can your spirit be cleansed by you and not the words, actions, ceremonies of any wizard in sheep's clothing; it awaits you every day and every minute. Learn to forget; I forgot how many years I lost of my life.

SO THE GALLOWS AWAIT.

Eyes close as night folds to day

Auditorium with lights like flower buds drape down

Axe to canvas, ghost dance loud memory

Chatter as breeze moves the moving

Awake and in the dressing of a wound

Chants through soothing rivers, blood from the pounding

Drums of flesh the tickets booked

With spotlight flickers, tombs in syllables

Scripts written from all that is everything joined

The pale crowd applauded.

Its mark a century,

Weight from wind

Bound in house

Tide to tide

Muted waves from the horizon

Wait, Dim.