the next hit
May 27, 2010 § 1 Comment
I like getting high.
The feeling of absolute abandonment to the elements, losing myself completely in the existence of that singular moment, owning nothing but the breath on my lips…
I’ve spent my whole life in search of that high.
I found it in stories but they ended once I turned over the last page; it was always bittersweet, like saying goodbye to a darling friend.
I found it on the stage but it ended once the applause died; my very first dance performance was at five and unfortunately, it was also the first tangible encounter I had with insecurity.
I found it in relationships but they ended once the differences created a gulf that no human effort could cross. It was always too painful, saying goodbye, and sometimes, the pain far outweighed the initial bliss.
I found it in liquor but sleeping beside the toilet bowl was not good for the body. I would wake up aching the next day, groggy and uncomfortable in my own skin, the taste of last night like sand in my mouth.
I found it in drugs but they never lasted long enough, cost too much and seemed to create a deeper void than the one it filled… leading me on a perpetual hunt for the next hit with a desperation I hated.
And then, one day, I found it in Him.
It was exquisite.
I felt accepted; there was no insecurity standing before Him. I felt such intense love, knowing His story – how He came because I would not go to Him, could not, when I was steeped in my mire of self. I drank deeply from His spirit and the colours in my life grew so vivid, beyond what any drug could give.
And each time I get high on Him, I want more… but it’s not a sickening desperation. It’s a longing so deep I can’t express. I can’t live without this. I can’t live without Him.
Am I obsessed? Most certainly. And I don’t care. I want more.
Junkie, a friend once said.
You’re right, I replied.
And I liked that.
‘What can I do with my obsession, with the things I cannot see? It’s the madness in my being, it’s in the wind that blows the trees. Sometimes you’re further than the moon, sometimes you’re closer than my skin. You surround me like a winter call, you come and burn me with your kiss. And my heart burns for you…’
– Chris Quilala, Obsession
I like getting high.
Now is there anything wrong with that?