Every drug has a comedown. But then, there are drugs for the comedown, and more drugs yet for that next comedown and so on. Conversely, there’s the bedown/staydown of a wallow; sometimes a deep and sustained wallow is all one can muster. Thankfully, this not strict either/or territory. If silver linings can be characterized, this one must be named as wry: in this life we have plenty of room for both irresponsible drug use and wallowing.

Love is a drug. This statement is both true and incredibly mundane. Occasionally, however, (undoubted testament to the fierce embroilment of both the comeup and the comedown) it will be experienced as the most profound turn of poetic phrase in human history.

Casual flings are a drug. Like most alternants, the comedown here really caters to the mindset of the user. Are you buoyed from creating connections, memories, visceral pleasure? Are you cast into depths of self-loathing, proud yet ashamed of potentially fostering feelings in someone else the like you’ll never (you tell yourself) feel again?

Keeping busy is a drug. Distraction, distraction, distraction. Yes, maybe there is some merit to sense of purpose, of achieving (wildly insignificant) micro goals, of just being too damned occupied to remember to self harm. Relax, this doesn’t necessarily infer dramatic self harm. Running can feel like self harm, even as I do it (daily regimen of a truly slow 12km, segments of walking interspersed). Tattoos are an iteration of self harm: a well-socialized version of cutting. I spend a lot of time imagining getting tattoos on vulnerable spots like my throat and side-torso. Because I choose to believe in the unlikely existence of indelible maturations in this life, I would prefer to keep the door back to cutting firmly closed; this, I figure, is likely a healthier path, though it may lead to me having a garishly ugly tattoo one of these days.

Drugs are a drug. All of God’s children stomping in one hay barn, hallelujah. MDMA, Cocaine, Methylphenidate, Psilocybin, Zolpidem, Carisprodol, a ripe variety of Benzos, THC, Alcohol, Caffeine. Here lies a deep wellspring of comedown. Less comeup than an ignorant observer might suppose, but, hey, some is something. Diminishing, yes, but what in life doesn’t lose luster. Plus there’s the evergreen richness of self-flagellation. But no need to draw any grand conclusions here, even bad theatre must go on, at times.

What do you lose, in a breakup? A person, yes, but probably too a whole network of plans and dreams and (new) expectations for life. And it most certainly isn’t fair to hang that loss on another person who is likewise just doing their best to get through every day but that doesn’t make the feeling of loss any less potent. So I find myself in this swirl of missing a very specific person, of missing a vast array of nebulous ideas, and, frankly, of missing my faith our human capacity for communication. I miss this person, deeply, but then–because my brain won’t ever just shut the hell up–I wonder if I really miss her so much or if it is just the weight of all things lost personified into her form. This very contemplation, of course, makes me feel small and selfish and unfair. Then I laugh (not literally) because isn’t the concept of fair reserved for the realm of fanciful theorizing? What the hell does fair even mean out here in the flesh-and-blood wilderness? And so the cycle begins anew. Except that’s not a very accurate description either, because it isn’t a clean, single-cycle repeat. It is more of a multi-part perpetual canon: all the parts sing the same chorus, but the timing is staggered so that each melodic phrase is heard at the same time. Sounds a bit like a cacophony, you say? Well, welcome to my brain and, I’d suppose, the human experience writ large.

Relationships end. I get that. The world keeps on spinning and emotions fade (or not) and it just becomes one of those touchstones that form the common human experience. I don’t so much mind the being sad–bless its little heart it is a feeling, after all. (Perhaps) Sickly, I wouldn’t call sadness a comedown, but its own twisted comeup. No, the real unwelcome homecoming is the hollowness, that expansive numbness that respects boundaries of neither time nor space. More, I’m awash with the perturbation of understanding that we all live alone in our own realities. That they often overlap means that we don’t have cause to internalize that your reality is not my reality is not her reality. Camouflage looks real but is famously the literal obfuscation of reality.

This is akin to how we so often erroneously believe our animal companions to be so well “behaved”. We mistake their goodnatured codependence for an interchange of understanding built from intention. Lately (and switching back to a human on human dynamic) I question the capacity of two distinct entities to mindfully share a common experience, as in not sharing by happenstance but drawn tightly together specifically through words and actions and all manner of shared cues. It sure seems as though people live the same moments, hear the same words, may even assiduously endeavor to connect and to communicate yet still end up with their own personalized truths. A loss of faith in the very premise of communication, hmm, what a high price to pay.

Change is a drug too. That sweet, sweet kick from turning the page. And changes they are afoot. My voyage was already waning even in the best of scenarios. This current scenario (I’ll tastefully leave it unranked) finds me without the verve whatsoever to continue it even to whatever natural conclusion I might have previously envisioned. I am in Mazatlan working to spruce the boat–and divest myself of most belongings aboard–with the intention of selling her where she lies. This is not a knee-jerk reaction; this decision has been considered quite carefully. It may even be a good one! But neither is it to suggest that this conclusion is independent of the state of affairs described at self-indulgent length above on this very page. I’m simply swimming the lane that I feel like I’ve got in me. Actually, even this route feels at times well over my head but, hey, isn’t this what aspirational mindsets are all about? Manifest what you want to see, not what you think is most likely? Or maybe I’ve just watched too much Field of Dreams. Dunno, though I’ll only allow you to be concerned if I start shopping corn fields as the next chapter.