11/1/11

(or 1/11/11 if you prefer a world which makes slightly more sense)
I've already slipped on my quiet desires to NaBloPoMo. Can I even start now? Yes I can. I can do whatever I like. Mind's submerged these days; irritable, like a lash in the inner-eye.

Addiction. As a thought exercise, let's not yet supply an example, cause it could predicate our resultant thoughts.

What is it? Does it have an opposite? Can it truly attain categorical partition from other acceptable dependencies [social assurance, food, sleep]? Most addictions are only justifiable in themselves, is this why 'outsiders' can leverage such insensitive disdain on those addicted? Or is that only a protective mechanism to quarantine oneself from like vulnerability [confirmation of a degree of universality!]?

Question questions.

Love is not the locus of purpose here, but I find it to be over-manipulated, undermined and misinterpreted. Love isn't necessarily the answer, but it is the eloquent phrase that might startle out the appropriate question.

Romantic love is an endogenous bio-pharmacy erupting with reality alterants. Through the introduction of another's materiel -once called 'anthropines'- this laboratory seizes this surge and squirts your system into hyperspace [Not cosmic space, in the literal sense, but an occupiable mind-quanta attained only through outside assistance.] Delicious, but quite soon, only this concoction will do; this enhancement, this love, this trans+space is at odds with OBJECTIVE REALITY {?so called, as it objects scornfully to everything it hasn't sanctioned?} --- and something will inevitably interrupt the chain. Perhaps I'll revisit this part later, but right now it's running away with itself.

So, how do you quit something? It can be a time vampire, an energy leech. Is it now irretrievably coupled with your personality? With your sense of self, or even, sense of place-time? Euphoric revelation could be conceived as being as unfair to the world as crippling despondency. So THIS then is a relief, as that would suppose that intimate to the core of addiction must be choice. A choice made frequently, and perhaps painfully, or perhaps just made once, and then subsumed by the powers of that which was let in.

But what then of somatic dreams? How is it that they can be compelled so dangerously by addiction? Mine are deep and breathtaking these days, with their surface brushing against the tension of waking life, that I'm beginning to reel and doubt the veracity of now. This is my eyelash, I suppose.