It’s crazy, being high. It becomes so very easy to topple over one side or the other of the fine line I walk these days. Constantly torn between living and learning and tearing myself apart and dying in a lonely heap of bones and disappointment. One minute I’m dancing, singing at the top of my lungs and the next moment, those same lungs fill with unwanted tears. I’m drowning in myself, out of view but in the sights of those who love me. I’m grinding myself down to the very same stuff I snort, so take me when I’m gone. Get high on my slight regrets, my wonderful learning experiences. Float on my arrogance, my sense of adventure. Soak in the feeling over overwhelming sadness, the dread of the inevitable madness. Listen to the Weeknd and imagine what I feel in these moments. Bowl or blunt physically, blade mentally, back to back, don’t stop until I can’t recognize what I’ve done. Sit inside my skin, fathom the urge to push fingers into and under the skin on my ribcage, pull it back, free myself. What is freedom? How can I attain it if I’m not taking it myself?