i resent the way you make me like myself

I am in want with his mind. Yes, want. It is something I die to have, or I should say, would die to have, as I haven't quite taken the suicide step as of yet. But, you know, we should never say never. That unhealthy thing. What I am now referring to, I don't even know myself. It is because I am one mind and he is another and the separation, the distance between us, it is like miles from home, so close on a map, illegible in real life situations. How it is guitars and throat, all his poetry made my favorite, and this is what I long to have. I follow his journey: songs, albums, small book of verse. This is how I come to see, yes, it is who he is, everything is his life, and I strive for the same length of passage for my creativity. That man, so much like a drug, unstoppable in my stream of life. I inhale and snort and shoot straight into my veins, all of him – how I absorb his every line and lyric, the words becoming lost victims of my addiction. And the first step is admitting you are a junkie, you know. But I like to think I wouldn't need to be anonymous and need to cure my need; he is wonder, beauty, raw and real, and his pain and ecstasy is everything every artist needs and feels himself, herself, itself. (We never want to comedown, we never want to quit. This is life.)


a/n: title comes from mike doughty. see my profile for further details.