When I write, it is contagious and I can’t stop. I get high. Its uncontrollable. this high.
All the words stuck in a dark cloud up in my head, flowing out of my fingers onto the soft, easy pressing, key board. I get high. Off of the overflowing ideas and similes’ that wash over me like the rough evening tide. I get high. from typing too fst that nothing comes out onto the keyboard right. BUt in my head this all makes senCe. I get high. off of the bottomless kettle of tea that I have spent hours drinking. I get high. ANd because of the indecisive, unstable, silly, passionate high. I don’t sleep. Emotionally and Physically beat. But I get high off of the swarm of words, phrases, and beautifully put sentences flustered up in my unorganized, kind mind. YOu C I just love to write, I get lost, entering a different world where I can’t hear anyone else around me. I am deaf, except for the smooth beats dancing off the record player. I get lost in finding myself. Its a horrible day, all I want to do is run away, with paper and pen. I am a ridiculous, oblivious, blunt, loca, American-Latina: who gets high off mid-summer nights, the symphony of frogs out the porch door, the smell of rain and vibration of thunder in my chest. The over-joyed faces that are utterly passionate about their life, the contagious laughter that makes my cry. I am, A crazy chicana that gets high off of infinite moments and all the beautiful words to remember them by. Y eso es mi vida loca.