The Double-Sided Effects of The Stimulant

If I drew an analogy between tackling a certain complex task like writing a paper with the more simple task of threading a needle with a string, where the achievement of writing the paper lies beyond the hole, and my focus is concentrated in the string, it may be possible to address the double-edged aspect of a stimulant in my system. The problem before coffee would be as follows: the string approaches the hole slowly, with deliberation but slowly. The string faces the threat of fatigue and thus sleep, where the needle would not be threaded. The coffee would provide the benefit of pushing the string towards the hole faster and keeping the deliberator all the more awake to do so, but would also succeed in forcing the string too fast and thus crash the string against the sides of the hole, splitting the thread into multiple separate fibers, all of them not enough to thread the needle, and thus my focus splintering into several disembodied tangents, such as writing this post, contemplating the possibilities of DADGAD tuning, testing the possibilities of DADGAD tuning, weighing the pros and cons of the concept of basic subsistence and security rights (which is directly related to my paper, and thus is one of the threads that is making it through the hole) and etc. Needless to say I took the coffee approach, and at this point I am not sure if it was the most efficient, though for most people it might have been. I regret this, because it is just past 11, and I haven't started my 5 page paper, and am still gathering information in order to even write it.

I have this habit of writing posts in place of writing papers. I have many posts like this. But tonight is worse than usual. Just now I slipped out of focus even in this seperate thread of writing a blog post, and so it seems the seperate threads that split apart from the original string are themselves seperating further out, as a sort of fractal, and I fear this exponential splitting will increase until my progress is halted altogether, and the coffee crash comes and I am completely doomed.

And now...the muffled throbbing against the walls of my head: a sign of an oncoming headache.

"A Flame", She Says

It started bright and hot, burned and burned and I had thought with reverence, "Man is capable of great things". I harbored that bright flame of optimism. Funny, I've forgotten how it feels, and at one time it was so strong. You take a belief system and you think, how can I have thought that? You fail to comprehend the sorts of sentiments that stirred in your past self, as opposed to a comprehension of what if feels to be warm or cold, or to be in pain. Yes, the feeling is diminished but you can comprehend it. Maybe because a belief system is situated so complexly in those feelings, and to change it would be to alter a score of connections, while things like warmth and pain are simple and can be recalled as primitives.

That flame for humanity did burn, yes. And then over the years it started to die, until it barely flickered there, a cold blue little bulb of light, and I held my reverence for every living thing except man. Sometimes, it would catch a kindle and flare up, only to consume its fuel and die back down under those arctic blasts of disappointment. Those were bad times. As if I had been poisoned, I laid low to conserve energy.

It seems now that it may have the chance to flare up once again. In time. It may be premature to say so. But in this prickly cynicism I do find myself hiding a sort of hopeful excitement for things to come. I see flashes of it here and there, as if as an entity it is trying to stir and claim my attention.

And in between those moments of contempt in which I am asking, "Man, what are you and what have you done?" there are these other more rare moments of "Well, you've done beautiful things before, what can you do next?"

Warmth And Comfort

Like being back in the womb. But with the mere illusion of safety. We forget that we are out in space decaying. Or at least approaching that peak of growth that precedes the decay.

But that's ok. The nature of things presents us with that ebb and flow. Life blooms out and then sucks back in to disperse to conserve and bloom again, supposedly outwards. The expanding universe as it were.

The sun revolves and lends us its rays and the warmth pours in and then leaks back out to wherever it must go, and the cold night awaits the next oscillation.

It feels good, laying here with this full body fatigue that is achieved from every muscle fighting in the resistance that water provides. Back to surfing, in short.

It is quiet out there, quiet in the respect that the roar of the breaking waves is rhythmic and constant and becomes soothing background noise that the brain ignores. The ebb and flow is out there as well. Benign and impersonal as opposed to the offense to our sensibilities that the ebb of life causes. It is all impersonal in a sense, but we assign offense to that particular ebb of life because we are wired to do so in order that we may desire its flow, simply by necessity.

But bobbing up and down out on that ocean is not a threat. As long as one doesn't become nauseous or tipped over. There is a profound serenity under the sun. Nevertheless, I can't help but cast morbid glances down into that murky brown emerald, with its discs of light rolling past the surface as the sun hits the water at the right angle. I imagine the broad gaping face of a great white, silently rising into focus out of the murk, its jaw slowly opening, its eyes rolling to the back of its head, going white. It comes up silent and deliberate and inevitable, like death itself. The face of shameless death coming up to meet me, to pass finally through that uppermost film of filth in the Huntington surf.

It hasn't come yet. But I've always had a fear of sharks. They're just moments of fancy. Of the imagination running wild, and then there is a bulge on the horizon that meets the peripheral, and ah here comes a wave, and I am off and then I forget for a while.

Oh, Thought Current

There are times of a sort of overdriven discharge, where the thoughts come one after another ceaselessly with no control like a flooded river gushing violently over its boundaries. Alarm sets in, the loss of control can be troubling when the thoughts are barbed, and I feel as the man who is lost and tumbling in a strong current and in that brief moment of clarity when his head breaches the surface and he is momentarily able to breathe he asks, "When will it end"? before being sucked right back under to pass further downstream. Unwanted thoughts, images, conceptions, they all drive this surge and push it with force and I am caught within and pulled apart and I wonder if permanent insanity is the perpetual tumble in this ceaseless surge, a surge that has broken free from something that was supposed to be securely dammed.

And I wonder if our dams can be broken. And they can. It happens. You can see those to whom it has happened. What does it look like on the outside? Babbling, or violent outbursts, or catatonia. Who could imagine what goes on in their heads when he himself is not insane? But can we approach it? Catch glimpses?

These are troubling moments. In certain intervals the episodes seem to intensify and get worse. A phase to pass, or perhaps ominous indicators of horrors to come. Hard to tell now. Not healthy to think about, surely.

Back To Default

Empty for now. It's alright.