Where are my feet? A phrase that could have saved my mind from drifting away with the smoke that carried it. Or maybe not. I didn’t desire the awareness that accompanied the grounding of body and soul. I wanted the distance between heart and mind to further neglect the emotions that held them together like the resin of the drugs I used to flee from myself. The self, the part of me that needed to be silenced so the void could grow in darkness. The self gasped for air trying to save me in the seldom moments it could escape the weight of the drugs forced  upon it. Each moment more fleeting than the last. Time was running out. Deep down I knew my ‘self’ was drowning, misery was the boot on its head, terrified to confront the shame and guilt and embarrassment that was surely waiting. The self was sacrificed. I was now a fractured whole, split and forced to pick a side in this drug induced schism. The devil I knew, said I could have what I wanted just keep doing what I’m doing. Drugs are easy emotions are hard. Death isn’t scary when you’re already numb. It would be a small transition from here to hell. But I was already in hell. I just couldn’t see it. My soul was in shackles, screaming at me to just look down! “Please just look down at your feet! So you can see where you really are!”