Seven Days a Week.


It was the speed that it resulted in that I loved. Everything blurred past me. The colors were like smeared paint on a canvas. I would feel my heart pounding in between my steady breaths. The fresh air would flow in and out of my lungs. And then it was as if everything would reverse. I’d be hitting my stride and the rest of the world was in slow motion.

My roommates never understood my obsession. What started as something casual had become a daily habit that I needed. The summer heat of New York made its people lethargic. But at night, everyone came to life. The brisk evening air was invigorating. But for me, anytime of day was electric. A lasting buzz. While the girls would sleep until noon I would pace around our tiny apartment feeling like a giant. I would blast music through my headphones and soak in the sun, loving the height of our fire escape.

On some nights, they would convince me to indulge in their vices. Their habits. Dressed in glitter, too often my room mates would let the night world take over. The dancing and pills were their rush and I got such a chuckle out of it. These people didn’t know what they were missing! It was nothing like the rush I could experience. My practice made me feel incredible. It made me the most happy every single day of the week. When I would on occasion join them in their repetitive scene, we would stumble home at the break of dawn. As their toxins began to wear off, I started to feel the itch. How could I sleep with that fresh morning air?

Kicking off my dancing shoes, I would lace up and race back downstairs to the streets. A slow rhythm. Then faster. Breathe in. Breathe out. That was my high.