Euphoria

There’s this habit you possess that feeds on the taste of your bitter conscience. Your flaws lay under a scolding gaze, overcome by the sound of your voice that rapidly shifts from sanity to nothingness. Someone will be coming soon.

I am not always what you think I am. I do not possess your habits and my conscience is in constant flux, but every now and then, when you tenderly manipulate me, my mind gives into you, craving your soul in entirety. I enjoy the ways that you feed on my weakness, but that particular day, it was like boredom abruptly captured me, waiting for a dead-ended conclusion that you, or I, or anyone else could not come to rational terms with. 

...so there I was, gripping the midday glass of cranberry and vodka, wondering what had compelled in me the sudden burst of inspiration to spit some words out. My slightly crooked fingers danced along the keyboard before the next sip of poison could trickle down my throat, and so there it was - somewhere along the spectrum of a quarter-life crisis combined with absolute boredom, my words began to dance again. 

I do not dance. But when my thoughts are seduced by the art of conversation, my words move to the melody, interrupting your rhythm, occasionally causing you to trip over your own two feet. It is not strategic - I am never a maker of concrete plans and for this reason, I spent that Saturday afternoon thinking, learning, and strategizing on my road to becoming a mastermind of some sort - either that, or a hot mess of strange concepts as my best friend glares at me in clear bewilderment. I never claimed to be typical and assure you I am not. 

Earlier that day, I picked up a book in search of a semi-logical epiphany. As the seventh sip of vodka entered my bloodstream, my words began to crave their canvas in the centre of your beautiful mind.I've always been compelled by the steamy love affair that my words built with your mind, but somewhere on my blank canvas, I painted some poetry without any words that cost me well over a fraction of my soul. That day had little to do with you, but somehow, you crossed my eccentric mind as if a spot right there was always reserved for you. 

While briefly glancing at the dining table of my one bedroom apartment, the notion greeted me that you are my substance and I am your abuser - we alternate these roles and get disturbingly tangled in what we call a deeply intriguing yet fucked up situation. 

Before I recycled the thought of your addictive nature, I peered at the now empty glass before me, shifting my thoughts to what I crave to become. There is something charming about the concept of uncertainty; I am not who I was and not who I will be. This is the in between of a morbid tale and euphoria, and I rest at the centre; recklessly behaved. 

Someone is here now. She stumbles on my every move, watching with persistence, and sometimes when the world cannot see, her child-like eyes wait for me to speak. But words do not form and a teardrop escapes from one of her hazellish eyes - half of her reasons with me, but the other half scolds. 

"What's it like?" she whispers. 

"Euphoria," I whisper back.