A Reason

(Originally written and posted Oct 2019)

Sometimes I get high because when I'm sober, this vitality, this beautiful sadness, this unquenchable drive and painful appreciation for life, for this whole crazy fucked up, perfectly twisted, human experience, this thing, that I can never quite capture, it comes to life and threatens to burn a hole in my chest. And it's easier to ignore than to exercise.

This energy, this thing, I've spent years subduing with substances, it's tied to the gravity I so often and clumsily translate into words in my desperate attempt at finding relation. I've begged and pleaded for someone else to tell me that they feel it too, that someone else knows what I'm talking about, what this burning, tumbling tragic joy feels like. My pleas have only ever fallen on deaf ears unwilling or incapable of granting me comfort. Don't get me wrong, I love this feeling, it is PURPOSE itself, it lets me know I'm alive and there's still some magic left to be found. But it's a hard thing to hold on to. It burns a little too hot. It feels a little too much...though, in no way could I find meaning without it.

Opiate-induced inebriation can subdue this feeling for about 36 hours before it comes rolling back, usually on the wave of a song or wrapped up in a bout of nostalgia. I know it's back because I get choked up in the realizations it brings. The memories it stirs. I've spent so many years in a constant state of rendering this unspoken force irrelevant, that I'd forgotten what it feels like. I'd forgotten it was even a thing. Now that it's back, I don't always know what to do with it. The only other way to find any relief, other than annihilation, is to do its bidding. That's what this is all about. Every word is just an attempt to give IT what it wants, a shot at satiating this thing that won't ever leave me alone.

A part of me suspects that once I've done all I can do in service to this cause, when I've emptied the well, I'll go the way of Jimi Hendrix or Janis Joplin.

This isn't another plea for understanding—I’ve all but given up hope on that front—this is a sign-post for fellow travelers who've been cursed with this blessed connection to source, this demanding purpose of EXISTENCE, so at least they'll have a place to pin notes to.

My fellow travelers, I know you're out there, I can see it in your work, I can hear it in your songs, and I can feel it in your words. Please say something so I know I'm not alone...or at least that I'm not crazy.