hangover

I am crashed and burning again. I used again. I freebased on pure hatred. It felt like it just happened, like I was pounding it down before I even knew what I was doing, but the choice was still mine.

It feels horrible in an awe-inspiring way, almost majestic in its perfect destructiveness. It has a focus, a purity and an unshakeability which the rest of me so utterly lacks. It makes me feel like something beyond worthless, like something that has reached the very center of a total void of worth, an anti-worth. When I am in its grip I am a showcase of multilayered, multifaceted defects and sound, solid reasons for nullification. The case against me is so seamlessly ironclad that it has to be admired. I am defendant, plaintiff, judge, jury, and executioner. I am a bad thing, so I hate that bad thing. I judge it worthy of contempt and vilification. I taste the outrage of the universe at the total wrongness of my existence and lash out. The rage makes me feel bigger than the skin I live in even as I bruise and abrade it. Every flash of pain, every burst of black across my vision in tempo with the blows to that woefully misinhabited skull, feels like more power than I have ever known. It feels so right, so justified. All the other targets that were beyond my capability to affect are forgotten in my orgy of self-punishment. I hear faint pleas for clemency and answer them with a cold stare and turn away without a word. Then I get back to the business at hand. It isn't logical. Its rationale will not bear up under the application of truth. It still happens. It just is what it is.

It doesn't last. The hangover is sure to follow. The feeling of power is replaced by weariness. The case against me is still as ironclad as ever; it just doesn't matter anymore. I am still a defect, a stain, a flaw, and nothing I have done has either mended that state of affairs or punished it. I am left with the memory of what I did and the fall I took from everything I ever believed that I called good.

It's not a chemical. My drug of choice is hate. I want to stay high enough on it to stand the pain of the doomed venture of becoming a human. But it can't happen. I am not allowed to destroy this thing, but the hectoring, insistent yearning to do just that will not go away.

I need to stop. I cannot be what is needed, ever, from any angle. I cannot do this. I need to stop. I need to see it possible to, and I need a reason to.

This is a very little thing. It is not important. I don't know. I want to forget it ever happened. I am sorry.