The Drug of Being Someone

Personhood is the strongest drug ever brewed — cooked not in labs, but in language. The moment you learn to say I am, you’re hooked. The high comes from being seen, remembered, defined. A simple pronoun turns into a lifelong addiction.

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Every thought after that is a hit. “I’m good today.” “They wronged me.” “I deserve better.” Each one doses the system with a small rush of separateness — that warm burn of me existing against the world. It’s intoxicating because it feels safe. The illusion of edges comforts the shapelessness underneath.

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But tolerance builds fast. The more you reinforce the story of “someone,” the more the body trembles when it fades. That’s why the mind never stops talking. It can’t afford the silence; silence is sobriety. Silence is withdrawal.

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The ego is a brilliant chemist — it keeps refining the product: new goals, new wounds, new opinions, new hairstyles, new spiritual identities. It’ll even sell you the fantasy of “killing the ego” just to give you a better brand of the same drug.

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To wake up is to realize the supplier is inside your skull. The detox hurts because it’s not the world you’re giving up — it’s your favorite hallucination. You start seeing that life itself doesn’t need a witness. It just breathes. You were never the addict — only the space the addiction moved through.

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When the drug wears off, the world doesn’t vanish. It deepens. Trees hum differently. The air feels thicker. Existence stops performing and starts vibrating through you, impersonal yet intimate.

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And in that moment, the greatest secret reveals itself:
You were never someone getting high on life.
You were life, watching a someone dissolve.