If this were an anti-joke the punchline would be: I’m on drugs.

Reality is more real than it was a week ago.

The solids are more solid. 
The liquids are more solid, too.

 

A week ago I was the solid one.

The world was smoke that swirled in my wake.

I inhaled the world and blew it out as smoke rings.

Or sucked it back into my nose.

The French inhale. 

 

Now I am the smoke and the world is so solid.

Breathe too hard and I’ll dissipate.

But the solids don’t move, so neither do I.

Is this what normality is supposed to feel like?

 

Sertraline, AKA Zoloft, AKA Happy Pills, AKA Another American Statistic.

You’d think that a brain flooded with serotonin and dopamine would feel happy.

Did you know that too much dopamine will drive you into psychosis?

I flirted with psychosis but she said she saw us more as friends.

 

The solid me was cooler.

She drove fast just for fun.

She protested, she painted, she danced, she cleaned, she worked out, she studied chess, she learned Russian, she wrote a book, she built a website, she took shots with friends, she climbed the corporate ladder, she fixed her plumbing, she tore the carpet off of the bottom of her steps just to see if the wood underneath could be refinished (it can) and…

She accidentally started a marching band.

 

Serotonin, dopamine.

More serotonin, more dopamine. 

Fight or flight?!

Why not both?

Everything all of the time. 

All of it right now.

 

You can only redline your life for so long.

You’re driving a sportscar with no brakes, and you’re running out of gas.

That’s what the lady told me before she blasted my brain with delta waves.

The wall in front of me melted.

I began to drool.

 

What’s the point of having a sportscar if you drive it like an old man?

…

What’s that smell?

…

Shit.

 

The engine blew.

Smoke everywhere.

I thought I could still drive because the headlights were still on.

Then the circuitry melted too.

 

Now I’m the smoke rising from the engine bay.

I’m the sparks that fizzled out.

A fire extinguisher choked out the flames with a blast of chemical goo.

And I feel very sticky.

 

Hours 1 thru 3: Voldemort’s shivering fetus at the end of that one Harry Potter movie.

Hours 4 thru 6: A stack of raccoons in a trenchcoat trying to convince strangers to give them trash.

Hours 7 thru 9: A ghost floating down a staircase wondering why the bottom two steps don’t have carpet.

Hours 10 thru 12: A body pressing against the solid world, aware that ionic clouds prevent the two from ever actually touching.

Hours 13 thru… Why am I still awake?

 

Why the fuck am I writing poetry?

Oh. Yeah.

 

I’m on drugs.

 

Elaina