For a while, all there was, was excitement. A trembling in my body and bones, an increase in my blood. Serotonin flooding each neuron and making me feel satisfied with all life had to offer for a moment.

But excitement is a petty lover. She gets bored quickly and tends to seek for more troubling things. First alcohol and then more powerful beings. She pops pills and drinks spirits, trying to seancé the happiness that has left her dry and dead. I suppose I'm always left as the channel.

It's perplexing. For a time, each second last minutes or days; and all I feel is a type of passion while stuck in a haze. But happiness doesn't belong here. This is not where she's known. Yet, excitement still plays, lounging on a pill-bottle thrown and plays these moments for days at a time (or maybe it's only seconds, one could never tell).

It becomes catching. Soon my body forgets how happiness feels but it is intimate with passion. It knows how strong the desire for things truly are. When you see the thing you love, serotonin begins rushing through your blood. But vices never seem to love me as much as I love them. For I consume them. Taking each morsel inside me because if it's left in the hollow of my chest, perhaps it will stay.

But excitement (or is it passion?) is always fleeting.