The road to recovery is an inaccurate metaphor. It's more like a river to the ocean. I am currently in the white waters of amends, and I'm not sure if I'm afraid or hoping that every bend or boulder I happen to avoid will only reveal some great waterfall.
I was recently reacquainted with a friend/band mate from my straightedge days. As much as I'd love to explore a new project, perhaps making something of all I've written in the last five years, I see only relapse. Relapse, tempting me as inspiration. I've come to understand pain is an infinite well, yet the water is so sweet to me.
I haven't smoked weed since my most recent stint in the local psych ward. A wholly unceremonious decision to be well, a necessary reset from bad habits and a worse atmosphere. The black market cannot ever help even itself, the void it leaves in our medical system strikes my heart with chaotic rage. If the public had people worth keeping alive, we'd likely have access to stem cell research.
Anger. I stop here because I know no further enlightenment is to be found in a brain reigned by acetylcholine.
I will return just as soon as I can.
