Peering into an infinite regression, she lights it up and begins another session. Inhale. The tranquility overcomes the depression. Elation is, again, in her possession. But this level she’s on isn’t solely for the feeling, it’s more of her sanctuary for spiritual healing. She leaves behind the outside world, relying on her common sense, pondering on her life and it’s significance. She’s forced to face her own mortality and question the lines of her morality. Throwing away the influences to only be influenced by her practicality. Contemplating on the likelihood of her own death without the benefit of knowing she’s lived justice of all of her breaths. You. Just Don’t. Get. It. You look down upon her because you think she does this for the fun when, honestly, this is her only method for refusing to run. She’s sick of finding an escape from the demons. She wants to live, to truly live, as a freeman. Fuck the world. She refuses to relive all the low blows. There’s a freedom that comes from letting go. Exhaling her soul of mischief. Puff. Puff. The pursuit of happiness is enough.

12 April 2