Drugs are among the most emblematic aspects of our world, calling to mind a truth that cannot be reconciled with our daily lives: life eats itself. It swallows itself, consumes itself, it is the mystical oroboros in its truest form. Civilization is self-consuming, as are individuals, as are drugs.
The indulgence of drugs is the indulgence of pattern – pattern for pattern’s sake. No matter how much is consumed, there is only the yearning for more. The experience itself becomes meaningless – all that matters is the drug, the thing that fades, and then the yearning for more.
Being is finite, and it is in finitude that life eats itself. Eventually, there will be nothing left. The joints burned, just as fuel is burned, until systemic collapse. The self is not designed to last, it is intrinsically bound to its own consumption. The self eats itself, leaving nothing behind, just as the used drug leaves nothing behind. Our patterns consume us, and we are powerless to change them.
This is the reality of drugs, but they also serve as solace. We turn to pattern when we most seek to defy pattern, and it is in this that we truly eat ourselves. It is in this that there is no hope. The self must transcend itself. Pattern must transcend itself. But how? Through force of will alone?
This answer is childish and unrealistic. To shatter all barriers and actualize the self in spite of the world – this is the dream that has been lost to our age. I have felt myself lose this dream. Death has come and gone, now where is resurrection?