Why I choose both synthetic and traditional drugs

I’ve always lived between two worlds, even before I knew how to name them. One world smells like crushed leaves, burnt roots, and the quiet wisdom of old men sitting under trees. The other hums with neon lights, laboratory precision, and pills pressed into perfect shapes. Somehow, I belong to both.
My first encounter with traditional drugs wasn’t dramatic. It was slow, almost ceremonial. An elder handed me a bitter concoction and told me it carried stories older than our village roads. When I drank it, I didn’t feel high so much as anchored. My thoughts wandered through memories that didn’t feel entirely mine. There was earth in my mouth, patience in my chest, and a strange sense that time had loosened its grip. Traditional drugs, for me, have always felt like conversations—with nature, with ancestors, with parts of myself that don’t speak loudly.
Synthetic drugs entered my life later, through curiosity rather than ritual. They were clean, efficient, and unapologetically modern. No chants, no waiting for the moon to rise—just chemistry doing exactly what it was designed to do. The effects came fast and sharp, like flipping a switch in my brain. Colors brightened, thoughts raced, emotions surged. Where traditional drugs whispered, synthetic ones spoke in full sentences, sometimes shouting.
People often ask why I don’t choose one side. Why not stick to nature or fully embrace the lab-made future? The truth is, each gives me something the other cannot. Traditional drugs slow me down and remind me that I am part of something vast and old. Synthetic drugs push me forward, forcing me to confront my thoughts with intensity and clarity. One connects me to roots; the other to speed.
But walking between these worlds isn’t without consequence. I’ve had moments of imbalance—days when my mind felt stretched too thin, nights when I questioned whether I was chasing insight or just escape. Those moments taught me respect. Neither path is harmless, and neither is a solution on its own.
Now, I move carefully. I listen more than I consume. I treat both the ancient brews and the modern compounds as mirrors rather than answers. Because in the end, it’s not about choosing tradition over technology—or vice versa. It’s about understanding why I reach for either, and what I’m hoping to find when I do.
And maybe that’s my real preference: not the drugs themselves, but the awareness they demand from me.