American addicts

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It started with a collective itch, absorbing unseen elements. Seeking and searching, we all left and met here. Hopeful the unknown would be better than the known. But still craving, switching spaces. On to the next psychological shift. Give us options, and we’ll name the poison. The united states of faces falling to the ground. Another cage of syringed bodies. Just human. Still animal. Sure, we can migrate to a new state. We can evolve. But what’s next? Mental awareness morphing into mind control. He talks like a robot. A meditative/medicated existence, far removed from the jolts of the past. Blacking out the rising sun. Looking out turns in. Don’t let them see muted emotions. Fear and insecurity tucked into a belt. Veins popping out. Red with misplaced anger. Blue with pain. A splitting people. Either you care about others or you don’t. They say it doesn’t affect them, it isn’t real, but their children will singe. Blur this dirty scene, a failed humanity experiment. Phase from consciousness. Lean on the mind and leave reality. Or leave the mind and enter reality? Maybe it’s not that simple. Who cares if we can turn it all off? Focus on the breath. An unthinkable chance for many. Those who cannot escape. Those before us. Stoned apes eating mushrooms. Circling around the fire. Making sense of sounds. They couldn’t afford to shut it all up/off. Why do we think we can?

Inside a high mind

The urge to preserve. Keep my few things organized. A pink case for my fineliner and gel pens, separated from the pencils, separated from the markers. Within the case, a small bag for my eraser and sharpener. Everything in its proper place. Set aside to ~save~ some future time or ease this high, racing mind. Compartmentalizing thoughts into objects. What’s the point? It’s a Thursday morning and I don’t know what to do with myself. I could open an app, any app, but they all give me the creeps right now. I could read, I should read. I could pack. We’re picking up and going again in two weeks. But I can’t be bothered to pack. Maybe another bowl. I don’t feel drawn to anything in particular, just pulled by various keys I type into this board. Launching sites and distractions to new stimuli. So much to know. So much to see. So much to hear. But right now I just want to turn it all off. Airplane mode, wifi off, just a notepad. Maybe a book. Why is it so hard to turn it all off and focus on the words in front of me? Others take their place. Sentences keep lining up into endless thoughts. Of what? Mush. This to that to this to that. People places things. The music in the cab home last night. Some concepts of reality and insanity. Things keep moving and I don’t know why. “Slow down, try meditating.” If I had more or less to do would I think less or more? This strain of weed doesn’t work well with me. Override. Overkill. Overthrown. It was free, and it works, so I can’t complain. But it must be an indica. A weird one. Prefer the way sativa rearranges my mind and tricks myself into thinking everything I’m working on is the most important thing I could be working on. Illusory efficiency in doing. This high makes me want to melt into a sandwich or watch HBO or mindlessly think about what to do next, until there is too much or nothing to do next, until I spend an hour, or one minute, thinking about what to do next. Uncertain. Where’s Sam? Maybe if we were both high we could figure out what to do next together. Instead I’m just looking towards west-side Medellín and wondering if I’m capable of reading this book in front of me. One Hundred Years of Solitude. I’m nearly half-way through, but I haven’t picked it up in a while. Read others since. I don’t remember where I was on the family tree. Which generation? So many characters. Trying to find where I left off in lines and names across time.