I can only write when i'm high

They say that heroin addicts spend their whole lives chasing the dragon- trying to reach that first, pure, unattainable high again. I realized last night that I have spent most of my last few years chasing the dragon in every area of my life. The happy years of my childhood whose memory I associated with my house, I chased – looking to preserve memories long dead in the fights ringing in my household. If I could save the house, I could save us all and bring us back to that time. After the first time I kissed or touched or fucked any of the people I have, I chased. I tried over and over again to get as high as I got on that first night with anyone who would oblige me long enough. If they did not, I chased them, trying for even a chance at obtaining that high, and getting back what I once had but had lost somewhere along the way. I chase the night I lost my virginity in every sexual experience I have, hoping to top my preconceptions of perfect, though I would always be willing to settle for a match. I chase the high I got from my first few packs of cigarettes every time I light up a Marlboro Red, the calm and relief I get now only being a passing substitute until the day they miraculously get me high again. In chasing the beautiful, childlike high I got from ecstasy, I used hordes of people I considered my friends, running over them for an experience that ended up being horribly aging – I suppose I got what I deserved. Even as I write this, I look forward to the possibilities of new highs and new firsts that I will chase in the future, because these memories are still sweet. My memories remind me that good still happens, though it is fleeting, and I chase these memories to keep them alive.