I wonder how much of life revolves around the pursuit of poison. Happiness is not a lifestyle, but a momentary high. One which, like any other high, will precede an inevitable crash.
With all pleasure, there is eventual pain, and through all agony, an eventual relief. We pursue pleasure, knowing in the back of our minds that it is a fleeting phantom. Despite the predicted fall, we still reach, jump, and break our backs for beautiful, intoxifying poison. It gives us something for which to aim. With it, we are sick, yet confident- without it, life is dull; directionless; meaningless.
Bring forth the poison
Let me indulge in my own insanity
Rather than waste away,
Leaving behind no chaos
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