Tripping on DXM

I was tripping on DXM when I wrote this.

I feel high up, like nothing can touch me. And it’s the solid way of riding the world. But I just feel like a series of bricks, lining the fourteenth floor of some building far from this place. I am the foundation from which someone would jump. And they would fly, if only for the briefest of moments. Though of course I think that’s what no one ever fully understands. Death isn’t just the dying, it’s that flying too. You are dead before you ever hit the ground. Death is elation and sedation. Ultimate sedation.

I would give the world my lungs and my life to see it swallow me whole. And it’s that counterintuitive thought that keeps me running. I would give my life for the world to let me die. It doesn’t even make sense in my own head, but it’s fact just the same.

And the buildings curve, and all the lights are dark. The people on the inside are sleeping. And dreaming. And some of them are away. Some of them are out. All of them are living. And the buildings curve around them like comforting nonsense. Like statements of time. You always have more. You always have more time to go and achieve these things you place beneath your head and above your pillows. You can be these things in this building. This comforting curve of bricks that will shield you from weather and whether. There is still so much time, minutes running circles round and round but never escaping from this capsule we’ve trapped them in. Here in the breathing bricks that ache under the weight of potential.

But the time lines don’t align. And you can’t be in that other place or time. And my string swirls and spirals and plummets and straightens and staccatos, but it will never align to that other string. To that other timeline I desperately wish I could be on. And no one can see that that’s where the true tragedy lies. It’s not in all that has happened that I find my staircase, or rope, or roof. It’s in all that hasn’t happened. That will never happen. The things I’ll never gain, the people I’ll never be. The millions of existences I’ll never find myself in. The saddest truth I’ve ever found is not that I’m destined to be me, but rather that I am destined to be me forever.

Potential is forsaken. Potential is painful. I live beneath the struggle of facts I wish to escape. I will never be anything in this world other than myself. No matter what I achieve or do or see I will still only achieve, do, and see what I, myself, can. I cannot have the experiences of someone else; of the daydreams, and the famous, and the fictional, and the fantasy, and the psychosis. I will be just this, and that excuse mimicking existence scars my mind. The world appears through my scar tissued view and is never quite as it should be.

But in these breathing bricks I watch the night transpire. And all the halls look the same and all the windows are painted on the same. And everything is just so. Except for the things that are just slightly off, enough to be real, enough to breathe like night and life and blink their eyes back at me and wish me hope that I’ll never have. In time I’ll disappoint these layed life lines again, but for now in the darkness of my own room and own head I’ll let them comfort me and lull me into sedation. Elation won’t come tonight. Elation’s a far away thought. But the breath of the bricks and its trusting blinking eyes promise me more time and things to come and more effort and more that can be done. And tonight I’ll trust it. Tonight I’ll love like no other, and build my bricks on the fourteenth floor, and rest my head on the drying cement, and commit to do better tomorrow. Tonight I’ll be high up, and nothing will touch me.