Lower than the silence and emptiness after the soaring magic festival you put your guard up to, could have ever felt.
And when you stop that high. And quit those lows. You never look back and want it. Dark self-loathing regret that you ever consented to the deceptively temporary anaesthetic. You don't even remember signing the form.
But the festival... even in the solitude of the aftermath, when you wished the gates were never closed, the jumping castles and jam donut vans were never packed away... you could have smiled about. And been grateful for. Because the music is still in your head to dance to.
That's the difference with loving.
