Sober, I shrink somehow,
retreat from the surface forms
and patterns of existence,
detach from the husk of habit
as I shrivel inwardly.
I wear my life
like an old man's suit,
suddenly too big.
I am strange to others
and myself; frail, distant,
a hollow shell.
And yet this withered me
may richer grow within,
refine its essence; like
the raisin, concentrate
its sweetness.
Only a 'work in progress'. Not even that, really - a 'scribble', no more. Probably not ready for the light of day. But I wanted to try and say something about this latest experiment of mine with complete abstinence, which I have found particularly strange, more so than any in the past (and there have been many); it has been a more than usually introspective month.
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