When I was a young one, all I wanted was to feel alive. I made some mistakes in pursuit of that goal, but I don't have any regrets. I used to smoke herbal cigarettes with no filter, so that the butt would burn my fingertips and my lips when it got low. No matter how hot to the touch it glowed, I would pull until there was nothing left. The red marks on my bottom lip reminded me that no matter how hard my bones dance to the songs of every day mundanity, waxing and waning mental health, and my urge to be great -- I am alive.
I still crave the feeling...
The closest I've gotten to recreating that in another way is by giving life to creations of my own. Art is such a pure form of expression, and can tap into the hearts of many, connecting us all by the arteries. When voices are silenced by oppression, or depression, self-doubt, or physical disability, writing becomes one that is even louder.