The Boy Who Lost Himself To Drugs Better -

And then he found the medicine that wasn't medicine.

They say he "lost himself." But that is a gentle lie. A self is not a set of keys you misplace in the couch. A self is a house with many rooms—rooms for grief, for joy, for shame, for love. He did not lose the house. He began to sell it, one brick at a time. The Boy Who Lost Himself To Drugs BETTER

He is still out there, perhaps. Or he isn’t. The line between the boy who drew maps and the boy who sold his blood for a bag is thinner than a syringe. Somewhere in the static, if you press your ear to the silence, you can still hear a tuning fork trying to vibrate. But it is covered in dust. And the maps have all blown away. And then he found the medicine that wasn't medicine