Riddle me this

It’s a feeling as if I’m trying to convince those last pockets of air from the needle so at least when I inject I won’t be risking my life. More so, I won’t be more riskily risking my life. 

But I’ve never shot myself up with anything. 

It’s like a drug but even more like water. Essential to the very notion of human existence. With it you find yourself free to move and kiss and wither, without all you do is wither ’cause it’s not a choice. Not an option. It’s dissasociation. 




It’s a high that can be broken with a word and not a timeframe. It’s unstable like a barbers stool missing a wheel or an addict. It can be faked but it’s not an orgasm. It’s not at the forefront of humanity but people fake that, too. 

‘Cause, baby, when it’s real it’s an energy like nothing else. It’s a trial by fire, it’s the long haul. The challenge and the tribute. It’s blistering wind, heavy snowfall, sleet, slosh, slip and your screwed. Stand unwavering and you freeze, run and you’re escaping the most beautiful part of life. 

If you take it by the hand and hold it through the pitch of a moonless night it will reward you. If you hear it cussing and shouting and you touch it gently with a warming glow it will honour you. If you push all its superficiality aside, dig below smiles and laughter, if you take all its light from the equation and kiss it there



crown you.  

What is it?

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