Psychedelia

Where reality pirouettes into millions of minute pieces, where hollows of fantasy suffuse with distorted truths and mismatched intentions, where tickets to unreachable places are sold at the cheap price of beer or, if you prefer something classier, maybe brandy.

Where anything can happen with alcohol-drenched throats and hungered desires pulsating even more powerfully, being magnified by all the derailing shots of alcohol. Desires that thrive only when one is not sober; those which only triumph when the consciousness alternates with the unconsciousness like a slide show, those which are hailed victors when one has been defeated due to lack of control.

Alcohol, I do not know that world. I read of it in many books, witness it occasionally with a misplaced fear of what has not yet been experienced at a ripening age of sixteen.

People say it is wild, and perhaps, that’s where all the fun stems from. Of losing yourself and allowing the forces of nature swallow you whole, of meeting the other side of your moon and succumbing to its dominance over the now-miniscule portion that you have shrunk to.

But the best part is, everything is brief, ephemeral.

The aftermath: after the phase of being maddeningly drunk has passed and the damning hangover has ebbed, what’s left of it are fragmented facts, unsorted fictions. After all the alcohol-coated interactions, people are back to square one. Sometimes, even less than it.

Although I’ve never experienced it yet and although these words are just mere products of third-hand experiences, there’s one common endpoint I see many people arrive at: Guilt.

In one way or another, it’s there; a little tumor and its effects still remain unseen, but once it goes full-blown, waves of cancerous regret begin to devour away.

If you could go back to those little points in time so as to avoid doing the actions that you did, you would, wouldn’t you?

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