#ConstellationsOfEnough A sensation from early life that never drifted. Time slowing with pain, though truly that's not the real shame. I learnt to regret in adult days, the speed at which pleasure passes by. A gesture repeated long before I understood it. Head drop eyes tilt into despair. But it brings you closer to the sound of your breath. Breath is hope, As you release, you hope, at least for a return. Peter Pan hoped childhood would never end. I sit in memory in the park looking at a statue of Peter Pan, with my grandfather. It is my most precious picture, I was three, on my fourth birthday he left for his eternity Filters of memory always make a sunny day, when he taught me to watch flowers grow. I wasn't a lost boy, I didn't know shortly afterwards childhood would stop being fun. He taught me the beauty in a spark, tiniest thing, carries the weight of joy, furthest. The purple polluted sky of home.People often fail to see that until I point it out. Nuclear powered, the sky above on the bluest day has the tiniest background hint of purply grey. It hovers over crisp browned moorland heather. Details, minute marks of bliss or sadness. Not the bruise or the force, or speed or angle of a forced fall to the ground. It's the sparkle of the sun on the first or last tear. Never some immaculate violet display. Colours spin a young mind, but the tiny green weeds in the tiniest crack in a concrete floor. Away with the fairies, forever forever. Forever my mind was drawn into an imaginary land. What captured my focus more than the forbidding door? The blemishes in the paint on frame. The pile thinned by the passage of feet, visible in the glow creeping beneath. Details. I promise I tried not to look. But the texture of a flexible cane sounds different from leather. A wooden heel has a resonance of its own. Muted only by minute details of imagined vast distance. I paint in miniature, both with a pen and a brush. I do it in earnest, aware of every tick in a hush.

Music and majiuana, now that's therapy. I got it wrong I thought it was compulsory Helps maintain the rhythm of my mood. Depressing tunes, smoke does the rest. Middling, background songs inhaled calm Dance, laugh and giggle cannabis in the middle Serious notes, herbs ensure details are heard. But therapy? Both reflect honestly how I feel. Both help me unwind after an ordeal. Therapy, isn't that a different thing altogether? Do you get the munchies on a therapist couch? A bowl of edibles in the waiting room? With incidental music to help you connect. Marijuana does help connect! Supply and demand. We all need a therapist I've come to understand. But eyes don't flick to focus after partaking; More a pleasant droop, while heads sway. And tapping, rhythm declines with dosage. Talk, yes mostly shit, in-between the tracks. Now psiloscybin that speaks for itself. Micro dosing? Seriously, that's no fun. Majiuana, it's just my personal stereo tool. Easily utilised, even by some stoned fool. Therapy, dope suggestion. So, just let me… Stick a disc on, roll a reefer and reconsider. As Cheech says, troubles go up in smoke. Briefly, for a while, think about if I agree. That music and majiuana are therapy for me. I should just say, obviously I never inhaled.

I think I need the Deca Registry

That first prompt was written for me. 🙏♥️