I’m addicted

I know it, and there’s nothing I can do.

Haven’t told anyone.

Haven’t done anything.

Don’t know that sigma is even attainable, that abstract idea out there.

Sigma. That would take some kind of…super-drug.

And I know there’s one. Just don’t know if it’s bogus. Or even safe.

To go into rehab is to die. I know it.

The drug is potent, irresistible, and dangerously unpredictable.

It might last for seconds, minutes, hours.

The danger comes when the high lasts longer.

Reality is forgotten.

It isn’t the drug that is the source of peril…not really.

It’s coming back.

You hit earth and reality so hard something’s got to give.

And it’s never reality that gives.

‘Course, it’s that symbolic heart that cracks and bleeds when its fragile surface meets rock-hard cement.

And of course, like any addict, I go right back for more, masochist that I seem to be.

It really isn’t all bad…

After all, the first high is never unattainable. Always varies.

Never boring. You couldn’t get tired of it if you tried. How could you?

And why would you ever want to?

But it really doesn’t matter how bad it is or not.

Exposure happens before you know of it, and by then, it’s too late.

The unending craving.

The need.

A hit, the high, the peak, coming down…

Coming down hard.

Falling.

Sucked back into this world.

No tolerance – I need it again.

So elusive, happiness…and oh so fleeting.

A/N: I'm a bit cynical about happiness. I don't think I'll easily say that if I have so-and-so, I'll be happy, because happiness isn't worth it and it doesn't last. Joy is what we need, but how do I get that?