Personal apocalypse

It has been a week of a personal apocalypse.

Every single word, wrong or right move examined under duress.

Angst and abyss.

Dark days, dark wonderings, losses counted high.

It has always been this way in one manner or another

The day slept fully away — to awaken as if it were a Monday and almost pleasantly remember it is only the early evening of another Saturday spent.

Trying to go back to sleep but restless.

The b-12 isn’t working.

Six shots in a row and no relief in sight.

The Klonopin barely keeping the chorus of horror in my brain at bay.

I forget that the wean of this drug is viscous.

An 8 year wean now from 40 pills to 11.

I think obviously I need some sort of professional help . . . But it was the professionals that set me on a ruinous path.

I start looking for a guided psychedelic trip.

One last guided trip in my 50th decade on earth?

Would that help? Could that cure this drag of my soul?

I am trying to own the now that is me, but this is not at all what I had dreamed for.

The reality of now —

Perhaps this is the crush of menopause.

The croning and crowning of a youth past.

A coronation of regrets.