We Are Such Stuff Dreams Are Made On

Our revels now are ended. These our actors,
As I foretold you, were all spirits, and
Are melted into air, into thin air:
And like the baseless fabric of this vision,
The cloud-capp'd tow'rs, the gorgeous palaces,
The solemn temples, the great globe itself,
Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve,
And, like this insubstantial pageant faded,
Leave not a rack behind. 
We are such stuff as dreams are made on; and our little life
is rounded with a sleep.


~ William Shakespeare (Prospero in The Tempest, Act 4, Scene 1)

Scene III Ends

What is it about leaving your home forever and starting a new life?

Nostalgia? Detachment? Grief? Relief? Excitement? Happiness?

It's a cruel realisation of an unclaimed childhood. Where did all those years ago, when I was supposed to be a just another kid on the block?

It's a baffled mind, amazed that there is no sense of loss. No sense of longing.

In the end, it's just plain relief. Relief of a much-awaited exit.

Scene III ends. Exits from left.

Break, Crush, Line

Illusions. All illusions.

I took the pill. Crushed it carelessly. Made a line. Took it in. One, two, three.

You are the worst drug I've ever pulled. Kaleidoscopic nightmare. You blow out the lights I used to make crop circled patterns out of. You make the hazy, monochromatic vibrations in the background fall down with a whimper. As I rise, you pull me down. Clip my wings. Tug on my ankles. You make me black and grey from orange and red.

There is no rehab. There is no way out of the spirals of time.

You are the worst drug I've ever pulled.