I came up addicted to urgency. Drugs, girls, then drugs again. Whatever made the moment louder. I wasn’t chasing pleasure so much as relief, a way out of my own head, my own body. Physical dependence braided itself with mental need until I couldn’t tell which one was steering. Some of it still lives in me, a quiet animal that remembers. I made decisions without preparation and then called them instinct. Naturally, those turned into decisions made out of desperation. I kept moving because stopping felt like death. Legs running, mind racing. If I slowed down, I might have to feel the cost.
Wanting became my religion. The more I wanted, the less I got. I chased success the same way I chased highs, fast, sloppy, convinced that if I didn’t grab it now it would disappear forever. Fear of failure? Maybe. Fear of stillness, definitely. I hardly ever just stopped. Not my body, not my thoughts. I told myself momentum was discipline, that hunger was ambition. But most days it was just panic dressed up as drive. I was exhausting myself trying to become someone who would finally be satisfied.
Then one evening it softened. No breakthrough, no miracle. Just a pause. I sat still long enough to notice that nothing was missing. Breath came in, breath went out. The wanting loosened its grip. I realized I already had everything I needed, not everything I dreamed of, not everything I once chased, but enough. Enough quiet. Enough time. Enough self to stay put. Why would I want more, if more was the thing that kept me running? The version of me that needed nothing wasn’t empty. He was full, and finally, he stopped.