If the first thing I said happened to be that hunger makes me sick, what would you do with it? It doesn’t mean we should make phone calls or send messages. I don’t have much to say, and most of what I do have to say is sick gibberish. The sudden withdrawl of easy living. I mark the days with meditations on the nature of meaning, and I turn myself inside out for fun and games. No sir, the fun never stops in the middle of a tepid lake. Distraction is the name of the game. We have to keep the mind from reminding us through the use of rapid temperature swings and dry skin palpitating in the heat. Once you start to feel it, it’s over. Not forever, but you won’t remember that in the throes of misery I wouldn’t pass along to my best friend. You’ll keep it all with you for an unknown number of days. Every minute, you’ll beg for it to go away, to leave you in the comfort of peace and stability. Every moment will tease you with the thought that this just might be forever. And that is when you snap like a frozen candy bar.
OF course, if you’ve been there and done that, you know what I mean. If you haven’t, then lucky you. I wouldn’t recommend it unless you’re into testing how far the mind can be pushed before it breaks down into its component parts. In the smallest moments of temporary reprieve before the battle in your blood throttles into higher gear, you’ll curse the tolerance that just days before seemed the mark of a courageous and powerful master of destiny. Why is there always a lesson to learn? Purpose is wherever you find it. That’s the only answer that makes any sense.
This all leads to one of the most amazing moments that can be experienced. There is nothing so affirming; so positive; so innately wonderful than realizing that the torture is starting to slack. The intensity of the moment leaks out. The rapid swings between the extreme of heat sweat and cold chills fade. That feeling of the world simply caving in lightens up, and you laugh at something stupid sitting across from you in the room. The walls don’t stare back, and the panic lodged in the back of the throat recedes into the distance. This is only a headfake.
You succumb to false hope. Swayed and proselytized by the allure of normality, the joy of receding pain is as mistaken as any other foma. When you are attacked again, this time with no warning, you’ll really feel it. This time the sweat will pur out of a whimpering form still trying to find out the number of the train that hit you in the guts. When you’re bent over and begging for the movement to slow down, you come to the greater realization that the value must be found in the extremes of this tornado. The let down is fierce, the physical pain almost as intense as the black tint applied touchingly, and in the right places at the right moments. For at least a day, you’re no more useful than roadkill.
Of course, the fever ebbs more quickly than the first rising wave regret when the downer demon empties out the last of the sweet wine. The intensity makes it burn out faster. Soon you adapted to the idea that movement loses it’s allure under these circumstances. Slowly but surely the question of why we started down this road in the first place becomes the important question taht could ever be asked. It’s the wicked smart self-recognition trip that every quitter has ever taken trying to quit. Fucking shitty rat infested hell of a nightmare. The cruelty of the process suggests something more self-aware than the situation truly represents.
Now, there is the matter of the calm after the storm. Nobody should ever turn down one of those momentary submissions to the greater spirit of the moment. After this is over, life will seem positively boring. The conqueror of such brutality has no need for the stability of a simple and free existence. If you aren’t fighting an obsession, what are you doing?
After all of this madness, I want to reach over and explain, but it seems like there isn’t any time for that. It comes and goes, as so much else will. I can live with all of that. I can get by knowing the end might never justify the means. The questions will probably never find the ultimate answer. There can be no argument that static is not our lot in life. Repetitious perhaps, but only as long as the trip turns into a holding pattern turns into the trip. Something to chew on. Sometimes you can get away with murder if everything rolls your way. After this, anything might be possible. A certain logic of hope. No matter how bad it gets, the one’s who don’t make it are usually the one’s that give up hope that one day, the shit will be just a molehill in the memory. The moment of such a choice must be a bitch. I’m pretty resilient, all things considered. I mean, I don’t even know you, and I’ve let you in on some serious thinking.
The night ticks by, leaving me feeling my way through and trying to remember where I left my keys. Things to do are easier done at ngiht. Something barely remembered in a yawn, and forgotten upon drawing down the eyelids. Cashed out, and I dont even know who you are.
