Twisted Highs

Someone say:

How am I supposed to feel when I listen to your private shit? How am I supposed to feel about being exposed to your raw history- so ruthless? How the hell am I supposed to feel about you wanting this- you wanting to let me in.

Whatever, girl. It is not like you know this is my nicotine, or do you? The momentum of my blood is different tonight because I know I am getting better; I am getting inside your mind and you are giving me energy. How the hell am I supposed to feel, someone say.

Is it not cold that I will make my future stronger as I listen to your hurtful stories? Is it not “sick” that I will earn a living only if people around me are in pain today? A part of me will shudder as I recognize the excitement my entire body feels when someone drops in front of my door in ultimate suffering, providing me with a chance to practice my expertise- to practice my purpose.

For without your suffering, I will have no purpose. For without your torture, I will have no pathway. Your troubles create my journey and your gruesome history creates my story. Inevitable, these battles, or is this some version of cruelty?