he bounces into the room with that manic energy of someone fresh off of rehab and still high on the the idea that the path to finding oneself is attainable

it’s the third time he has done this

the third time he has found his truth

the third time he cast aside the blinders on his inner eye and finally seen the world

his left hand twitches

it always twitches when he is jonesing for a fix

he doesn’t realize his foot is tapping the floor with the staccato of a freeform jazz cymbal vibrating along to the music he hears in his blood calling out for one more ride

he slips again

started out small

sore back this morning so he took a couple pills

a couple turned into a bottle

turns into driving through the old neighborhood

turns turns turns turns turns

he pours himself into the room with dark circles around his eyes and sallow skin

slouches on the couch

mumbles incoherently instead of answering

he is trapped in the only truth he has ever truly known built on sand out of empty styrofoam cups with three day old coffee stains and the creak of folding chairs in another meeting

losing yourself by finding yourself in loss