I’m not crazy, but I used to be.

These days, I would describe myself as an avid flosser who is perpetually covered in dog hair. My appearance is pleasing to the eye, though unremarkable. I seldom socialize, yet manage to maintain a number of close relationships. I have few hobbies and do not actively engage in them on a regular basis. I like things; I don’t love things.

But I used to be passionate.

I remember being dragged helplessly from one end of the emotional spectrum to the other. I remember squinting through the fog looking for salvation. I felt the burning orb rise in my chest. My tongue is still scorched from the flames that emerged. And I remember the wave disguised as redemption that nearly drowned me.

I am a ghost that reminiscences in the romanticized past of a stagnant present. Even in the depths of my delusion, I recognize that my truths are subjective and tragically flawed: A broken vase is just a broken vase. It was not beautiful. It was not fulfilling or self-actualizing or at all sensible. But, god, was it exciting.