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What does normal even feel like? Do I really want to fall back into the gloomy reality? What if I am addicted to this moment’s bliss, to temporarily observe this existence, without a care for the world — the distant cracking of the joints when my body stretches goes in and out of the boundary between my awareness and the abyss, so veiled is my consciousness.

I feel genuinely happy, and seeing my partner’s happy reaction to the fact we just won some more bingo machines makes my heart skip a beat. Why am I so strangely sentimental when I am in this state? I thought I escaped reality, but, yet, here I am, brewing tears for no apparent reason. I guess no one in history will remember us when we are gone, so I’d like to document some little things.

Am I turning “getting high” into a requirement for this journal series? Gosh, it is just so hard to get started on anything I want to do in life when I am sober. And I really need to get some help in controlling my excessive behaviors when I am high, at home, alone; I could’ve really used that chunk of time for a burst of creativity instead of being drunk on pleasure. I am sincerely afraid of getting discovered that I’m stoned in public at any moment, yet once in a while, I feel utterly detached and without a trace of care.

I noticed that I am more jittery: my mouth feels numb and dry, I’m shaking my legs profusely, and my urges to use the restroom are muted, undeterminable, and confusing to a point that is irritating. I feel the irresistible urge to chew and gnaw on something; my nostrils are filled with this unnatural sense of blockage that just feels hopeless for me to disperse. I don’t think I’m making sense, and I hope that is okay.

I contemplate: why am I motivated and productive in a strange way under the influence? Perhaps it’s the overwhelming sense of experiencing beauty — like the setting sun shining on my skin. My visual and audio senses transition rapidly in a blur of time, the scene and lighting melting between several complex profiles: a high-definition store TV demo of a bright, colorful, floral-everywhere Dutch town vibe day-to-day car scene, to a ’80s stale film-like segment with washed colors tinted with strawberry-milk-pink dining scene, to a hallucination of the scene from an audiobook that is currently playing in my headphones.

Strange, random pieces of thoughts popped in and out of the boundary of my consciousness; I’ve got to say, this book series, Dungeon Crawler Carl, which is excellent when consumed sober, turned out to be an inexplicably incredible enjoyment beyond description when high. While my empathy towards the characters punctured in and out of the river of consciousness through the vibration on my eardrum felt greatly enhanced and intensified, the stream of narration of this sparkly alternative reality bounces on and immediately off my short-term memory, feeling incredibly soothing.

There are several recurring themes to the pieces of anonymous memories that left a prolonged impression on me; I do not know their meaning, but they felt important to me. One of which is a dark green garden bush dazzled with colorful rose and peony flowers, with a background wall of morning glory climbing over the metal fence onto the gray, wavy, terracotta brick ceiling. You can see the midday sun reflecting off the walls and concrete of a two-story storage unit via the covered fence; the scene of the dark green shades of the morning glory leaves soothed many of my exhausting nights.

Another one that I missed was a vision granted to me when I, defying direct orders from my parent, placed my heated little head over the grills of the indoor AC unit. I enjoyed a chilly yet surprisingly gentle breeze when the unit runs, imagining myself standing under a crimson sky with brilliant stars, in a field of waving tall grass, looking down over this stony and grassy hill I was on. Darkness and serenity seeped out of the silhouette of the forest, surrounding the bare grassy field over the slope of the mountain.

Yet another — fleeting quickly from my awareness, what was it? Hmm, I already couldn’t recall.

The reality felt cold: when I started to remember myself at work, raising my head to stare out the window to see the slightly dark sky and the morning sun reflected off the water tank, a primal understanding emerged from my mind that the darkness of the office coldness contrasted beautifully with the sky-blue and golden sunshine. How many realities have my jumbled mind experienced? And how many of my experiences are real, and how many are just synthesized crystals of understandings?

Why do I wish to be in this state? Why was I willing to double my dosage today when I could’ve quit? What was so hurtful that I didn’t want to deal with? A desperate feeling that I am no different from any other lowlifes who graced this earth with their presence, that I am just as deeply flawed, that I am as morally compromised, and as perverted as one can be. I am even sometimes amazed at how low I could go.

Sigh, I am tired and sleepy, and I’m currently fearing that this, the journaling, is not sustainable; how can I stay motivated when sober? How can I overcome procrastination? How do I stop contemplating the meaning of life? How do I stop wasting time on trivial stuff like nursing my possessions, and fix the focus of my attention on making an impact — any impact, utilizing all available resources from my life?

Checking out; I feel like doing something else.