MDMA is turning into quite the therapy for my anxiety riddled mind. I’ve been doing a bit of it over these past 2 weeks (currently going on a break for 2 more weeks or so) and it’s helped me a lot in terms of reconnecting with myself in a healthier, calmer way. I miss my pandemic era self. All I did was read, watch films, and listen to music. I miss being so creatively in tune with myself. Whenever I do MDMA a little piece of that girl that went missing comes back to me.
Everything is so chaotic, days just slip through my hands. I don’t even go to sleep anymore. I just stay in motion until my body gets tired and then I pass out. Last night I fell asleep in my bed with my curtains open, stark naked. I realized after the sun came up that the apartments across the street could have looked out their windows and into mine and seen me nude. I always take supplements before bed and I don’t want to miss a beat with them, so I still manage to have my water and fish oil before my strange body, my strange life, calls me to bed.
Maybe it’s the drugs, but I want my writing to feel a bit more electrifying. Sometimes writing in my blog isn’t even about writing per se, in as much as it’s checking the pulse of my creative self. Does she have her voice? Is she moving in her flow towards the things she needs to be tackling? Post pandemic New York is a series of never ending distractions and I’m getting more cut throat with managing them. Learning to harness my energy, to keep it focused on what is important, is so difficult.
I found a book on beauty at the book store the other day. It was a series of essays and it was funny to look at, to read, because the writer’s voice was so similar to mine. Like someone babbling into space about their experiences with bleaching their hair. I guess that made me feel better about the possibility of my writing, like my mediocre babbling could grow a pair of legs and wake up in a bookstore one day. I don’t want to spend the rest of my life living in the shadow.
a soft death 