Right, wrong, or relative?

I'm all tongue tied, like I've got something to say but I can't spit it out.
I can't shut up but I'm not saying anything. Just "Did you know.." this and "Can you believe..." that. Full of fun facts. But I throw them at you one after another, only stopping for fuel. Quick breath, quick smoke, small bump, big chug, "Where was I? Oh yeah! Blowin' your fuckin' mind man!". I must be hard to hang out with. Then again, I like me. Fuck, I have some of the best conversations with myself, working out details of plot scenarios for shit I'll never bother to write. Good in small doses. Why I medicate my thoughts to the background perhaps, is to focus a little more on reality? That can't be right. I was always told drugs are an escape. What if you're escaping insanity? Should you quit fighting it and just lose your head? Or is it the drugs that make you crazy? My inner monologue is like this outer monoblog; repetitive, indecisive, vulgar, critical, cowardly, generally pretty casual, but sometimes serious, occasionally frighteningly so. Sometimes I write with a different voice, sometimes I think with a different mind. If one gets more air-time, does that make it more valid? The real mind is the day-to-day where are my shoes, left at the lights, what's for supper mind? Or the staring at a fire, listening to a song, paddling a canoe, moving and doing quiet mind, is that the more real mind? More-real mind, what the fuck eh? Like I have any authority beyond my own skull. Define your own world, that's what the guy running my bone-jar says right now. Trust in random and time I guess. If you can at least do that, then you're doin' alright. Because if time is passing, things'll change, and as long as there's random, there's things to amaze.