Edges of coins

I’ve never used drugs or had more than a sip or two of alcohol.  I can’t relate to people these days.  I’ve never been on psych meds, even through periods of intense anxiety.  I can’t relate to people these days.  
 
Sanity is a creative art.  Balance is the arbiter.  
 
There’s so much beauty in self-control.  The sinuous and perfectly executed movements of a ballerina.  I move in a controlled way, but appear to be gliding on air.  I can walk a tightrope when I need to.  I can forge a tiny path across a seamless obstruction.  
 
I like the freedom of space around me.  I like clean crisp air, at times nothingness…or unlit lightness, really.  Nothingness is the inversion of existence, but nothingness requires existence to simply be.  What is a hole but a space filled with air or something unseen?  If nothingness wasn’t filled with something, would it cease to exist?  Does it even really exist, if it’s always filled with something?  Maybe it’s merely a concept.  Maybe it’s a feeling, a dreamy exaggeration of lightness, wishful thinking.  Maybe it’s really death.
 
Still, the concept of nothingness implies such a purity about it, as does emptiness; is there a purity to existence, then?  There is obviously a purity to fullness.  Yet the word fullness brings to mind such debauchery, an inherently dirty quality, a temptation to or a consequence of sin and lack of control.  There is a purity inherent in both control and lack of control.  I am attracted to purity.  I try to preserve the parts of myself that feel pure.  My mind is not one of them.  My mind is as dirty as intellectualism, as dirty as instinct.  There is too a purity about the latter, and a possibility of purity about the former–only when it’s true to form.
 
I like to feel wholly myself.  I like to feel pure, unadulterated.  My body is virginal in many ways, except the one that counts; my mind is absolutely adulterous.