Posts Tagged ‘ I’m thinking about…’

The Wit and Sophistry of the Damned

Posted on June 13, 2009

Below and Asunder

Below and Asunder

Today she sounds mostly lucid, which lets my insides momentarily relax before I realize that she is merely posing (as she was taught), for the sake of custom, while we exchange pleasantries.
She has (again) quit smoking (really)
Because of the crinkle she’d spied near the lower corner of her right eye.
She suspects she may have a matching one on the left side, though she cannot bear the ‘verify and check’ process.
Maybe it’s better (if she does not look), for she does blow her smoke out to the right, and should she not see a companion crinkle on the left, she knows she may well rationalize continuing this filthy habit until she creates one, just for the sake of continuity. And evenness.
Did I know that humans are genetically programmed (She knows this is not the right phrase, and i assure her that i know that She knows and that i understand) to hunt and prey upon the ugly?
For survival…
She tells me it’s animalistic and that she hates that what she has said is truth, but that it is.
She knows she is not beautiful but she hopes, at the least, she might ‘blend’ a bit better if her crinkles are uniform.
Maybe she won’t be exterminated.
Beauty, she says with grave disdain in her tone, is the root of all evil. (she was once so beautiful.)
But today…
Ahhh, today she is smarter.
For, today she chooses to be fit, so that she might survive.
She assures me that she will survive.
Why is that? (is she prompting me?)
(i am silent. i think she is being rhetorical)
Well? (evidently, i think wrong…)
(Why?)
Because she is the fittest.  Mentally, she is the fittest of them all.  (this, she never was…)

I ask her how she is…otherwise

She is seeking her absolution. It will never come. There will never be an absolution.
So in lieu of the absolution, she is seeking ‘the numb’. Her numb-itude (what?)
Where is the numb? She’d give anything to be numb. All the way through. (through what, exactly?)
Through this whole thing, really…
Through life and through death and through pain.
She’ll even sacrifice those rare feelings of pleasure if it means she won’t ever feel the rest of it ever again…
(She laughs and apologizes. She knows i hate when She says things like this)

Seriously though, did I know that she is also giving up alcohol?
She has to. For a bit, anyway. It’s been making her feel…
Incompetent? no…
Disjointed?
Well no…not precisely that either…

(i tell her i think i understand, but her mental synonym search continues)

Incompatible? Strange? Irrational? Irreverent? Bizarre?
Unreasonable? Slow? Spurious? Incongruous?

Incompetent!
(you said that already)
Yes, the alcohol makes her feel incompetent.
So, she’s done. For a bit, anyway.
(i’ve heard this before)

She lights a cigarette
(i thought you quit)
(then, instinctively…) Tomorrow is the last day.
Because she’s already had a few today, anyway
Because she has two packs left and she isn’t a wasteful person
Because she had some drinks with Brunch, and sometimes drinks simply beg for smokes.
Because today feels lazy and lazy days without a smoke feel wasteful, and she isn’t a wasteful person.
Because she might as well give up her smoke and her drink on the same day.
Because there is no need to feel that shitty twice…
Because she can’t take a Xanax right now to kill the craving.
Because then she’ll fall asleep, and screw up her internal clock something awful, which is heinous…
Because ultimately, insomnia will certainly marginalize her quit effort, if it doesn’t suffocate it altogether because…

(“Because, because, because, because, because…Because of the wonderful things he does. We’re off to see the Wizard. The Wonderful Wizard of Oz.”)

…honestly, have I ever tried to function (yes) or commit to something (no) on no sleep (oh.)?
Because it’s not easy (ok)

(laughter, then… sudden, undomesticated, incoherent; gilded in chaos; underwritten by psychosis)

Has she ever told me about the time when she was coming off of the Strattera?
no, no…the Paxil?
no, no… not that either…(it was the Ambien)
the Ambien! goddamn pot…
Yes, that was it…so she was coming off of the Ambien, which is an ordeal she hopes I never have to endure, as, the way she sees it, there is no way I could handle it because my threshold for pain, unlike hers, is almost non-existent…
Anyway, she’d been lying in bed, desperately praying for sleep (she is an atheist), when her entire body seized.
It was as if each individual muscle were suddenly connected as one, and she began spasming uncontrollably.
She says it was like being an actual time bomb.
A real live human, twitching, ticking, time bomb.
She says that it was fucking frightening. (i’ll bet)
She knew she was on the brink of the most major mental melt-down on record, so she just started imagining the most horrid crime scenes she’d ever read about. In detail. One after the other…
She is aware that it seems like an insane thing to do in that sort of situation, but she herself was feeling completely insane, crazy and then some; and she firmly believes that the best way to do combat with crazy, is to exceed its insanity.
It’s hard, you know? It’s counter-intuitive (she says).
In the same way that you cannot actually gauge your own body fever (temperature), because your hands might be sick as well (close enough), it really is next to impossible to get an accurate reading of one’s own level of insanity…
Thus, the only way to unerringly self-estimate (self-assess? oh, never mind…) one’s own senses in any given moment, is to re-assure oneself that crazier things than oneself, do still exist.
She sighs laboriously beneath the weight of her affliction, before she continues…
Yes, it is sad fact that ‘insane-er’ is truly the last solace available to the insane.
Not that I would understand (wouldn’t I, now?)

Right, so there she is convulsing madly while mentally assembling a veritable feast o’ porn for paraphilics, when she has the most compos mentis thought she’s ever had (i hate when She uses her Latin, predominately because She doesn’t speak Latin, so it always seems awkward, which, incidentally, is why i hate when She uses phrases like ‘my Latin.’ As in, ‘I find people respect me more when I use ‘my Latin.’
it makes me want to vomit…)

The problem, she states, is not being on the drug. The problem is not even NOT being on the drug.
The problem, she realized, is the period of time between being on the drug and not being on the drug.
The ‘want’ and the ‘detox’… those are the dicey parts. After that, you cross the border. You’re in the clear.
Benvenido a Mexico damas y caballeros… (anything but the Latin…)

(i then acknowledge that while these are certainly heavy pieces of the puzzle, the lust… the omni-present desire for the thing, forever evermore, must also be considered. She glosses past this notion, with only a cursory remark about Lust being a problem for only the mortal-ist of mortals; which sounds harmless enough, but feels like the equivalent of taking a sea scroll to the eyeball, if you are me…)

But she’s still shaking. Bad. Real bad.
Must be from those narcolepsy meds.
They’ve been nothing but trouble, that’s for sure…
After all, were it not for the Ritalin; then the Xanax and the… what again? (Ambien)
the Xanax and Ambien might never have become such and integral part of the routine.
Still, it’s for Science! she shouts (upswing)
She gives her body to Science, goddammit! (she is an atheist, and thus feels no need to capitalize it…)

(and then…)

But fuck science, man! (downswing)
Fuck these jolting exorcist-style, stumbling, bumbling episodes.
Fuck the wine and the weed and the cigarettes and the uppers and the downers.
Sure, it’s understandable. It’s all balance and counter-balance.
She knows the truth.
The truth that humans are attracted to equals and opposites.
She has merely perfected the science behind the idea.
She is a fucking pioneer.
A Scientific pioneer who would capitalize ‘Science’ instead of ‘god,’ any day…

(and then)

But no more. No way. She’s done.
Consummatum est! (fuck)
So now she has determined that she will check into the hospital and coerce the sucker with the pentobarbital to induce a quick, restorative coma.
Nothing severe… four days….
Eight, absolute max…
(She speaks faster now) (upswing)
This plan is infallible.
She will wake up, twelve days after she’d floated into that most peaceful sleep, and she will be free.
Finally.
Free from the wine, and the weed and the cigarettes and the uppers and the downers.
And her guts! Oh, how her guts will praise the Lord and rejoice; finally unbound.
(her guts may or may not be atheists…)
Oh, how she knows her very entrails will flourish and blossom, once they are no longer twisted within the Intra-Gut Purgatory of gnarly lies, which she has subjected them to.
And mostly, she will be free from him. (downswing)
Off the real feelings for him, once and for all…
Because at the end of the day, I know as well as she, that he was her problem. (do i?)
The rest was but a symptom. He was her down fall.

But now victory is within her grasp.
She will be refreshed and available. Off everything. (everyone) Clean. Ready to begin. (again)

And while she is still considering this method (literally, still in this moment, considering…)
the shift …
(subtle, yet not to me…i hear her voice begin its shallow cry, as if She were trying to speak after taking in liquid through the wrong pipe. minus the coughing)

She feels her plight may be more sympathetic if she does it herself. All by herself.
White knuckle, belly up, down to the wire, brass tacks, just fucking cold turkey, weaning herself.
(i don’t bother…)
Yup, that’s her…all on her own.
Its not like she needs this any of this shit. She does not require it…
Please, the last thing she ever needed was her mother’s milk and she never intends to need another human to sustain life ever again…she’d sooner turn to into a cannibal, than need another to maintain…
She remembers that final feeding (she does?)
She recalls being boorishly divided from the tit, mid-suckle, and being kept from its bounty evermore, but fuck it, man…that was one to grow on too…
(shivers; that feral laughter, again…)
She’s been just fine ever since. (has she?) Never needed anything… (hasn’t she?)
And she’ll be damned if she needs any of this stuff. She’s no junky.
Because honestly, there are children being imprisoned for stealing baguettes in France as we speak,
(she’s been watching Les Mis again) and she’ll be damned if she’s going to forget how fucked up our society is, for even one second, because she knows black and white and right and wrong, and try as she might, she cannot and will not forget it. (which? the colours or the strife?)
The strife of them. (warning: her exasperation at my daft-itude escalates quickly now…)
Their strife, she means…
and the colours. Or, ‘the colours too, as well.’
She’ll not forget those either, goddammit (for the record, I am not an atheist)
And additionally furthermore, she really does think our relationship would benefit greatly from my contributing a bit more to the conversations, when we speak.
She feels like it’s always her responsibility to drive the dialogue, and she is growing weary.
She isn’t trying to be harsh, but she can only reach out to me and mentally coddle me for so long, before she simply hasn’t the strength to do it any longer…
And then I’ll be on my own, and that, as she sees it, is simply not something I’d be capable of handling
(she is feeling sanctimonious)
Unlike her…
See, she had to learn to ‘be on her own’ and ‘take care of herself’ before she even learned to walk; which is why she skipped over crawling altogether.
She simply hadn’t the time for the thing.
Please, she was working by the time she was four.
Had I really thought that lemonade stand was fun? Am I deranged? (we are still speaking, aren’t we? Yes? Perhaps then…perhaps i am bathed in derange-edness…)
She can barely stand to continue this talk at all, but is feeling forgiving this day, so she shall try, for my sake…
Nonetheless, she wholly suggests that I count my blessings when we are through,
(i’m considering becoming an atheist)
and where was she, anyway?
Ahem…What was she saying!?
(oh, that’s me. right, um…(scanning)… comatose… yes, you are detoxing courtesy of your local medical facility’s fictitious ‘Request-a-Coma’ program)…
(no, no… of course i don’t think this is funny. It’s my defense mechanism, you know that…)
(but she is hurt. i should’ve known better than to push her…earlier, perhaps…but not after baguettes and Les Mis…never then…)

(and now…)

(silence)

(i want desperately to reach her) (i used to reach her always)
(but now i cannot. i am now far, far, far, from that place; a fact which She is certain will remedy itself sooner than later. i know nothing of being on my own. self-sufficient?! ha! if i keep talking like that, She has a piece of scrap metal to sell me that she found on the moon and was appraised for 93,000 U.S. dollars.
She likes me though. 70 bucks. cash. done)

(she’s slipping…)

I resort to the weather conditions…
Her reply is distant and delivered by rote.
It’s mild for this time of year. Today was mostly cloudy with occasional thundershowers.
There is a strong wind advisory in the south and the north.

(i find her phrasing alarming. it is not her own, rather it is repeated, verbatim. plagiarized directly from the chirpy weather girl on channel 8.)

(i am so jealous. it’s been forever since i’ve seen a good thunderstorm. at least that long…
or even a mediocre one for that matter…my God, how i miss the grey. not that i am not grateful. i am.
it’s just that…feeling.)

She finds my plight unsympathetic and morose.
(no, not at all… i am simply sharing a thought? contributing?)

(and then)

(silence)

(what now?)(what is next?)(how might i advise?)(I cannot just let her go)

(can i?)

She’s written a new poem that i really must hear. It is called ‘Maimed in the spleen by god’

(how might He maim you, if He does not exist?)

She tells me that I will not understand it, but if I focus, it is feasible that I may take something from it

(i am focused…)

She speaks and my chest becomes taut. I instinctively hold my breath.
She hates to feel interrupted while sharing her art.
She floats away and I follow in a dirigible, gathering her jetsam…(praying)

(she was once so beautiful…)

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This day…

Posted on May 17, 2009

Things Fall Apart...

Things Fall Apart...

This day is the anniversary of my father’s death…

Well, it is still ‘this day’ in Hawaii, though I suppose it was yesterday were we to calculate using EST.

That was the deepest thought I’ve had in over a week.

Which is discomfiting.

And also not exactly accurate, but nearly enough.

But my Dad. Is dead. Still. As he was. As he has been. As he’ll continue to be.

And he was sad. When he died. And that makes me sad. Every day.

Oh, tears. Emotion. That’s good.

I hope my thoughts are not far behind…

I miss them. And I miss him.

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Interlude

Posted on March 26, 2009

I am an outrage...

I am an outrage...

I had the most vivid dreams of cocaine and sex last night. Though, I’ve found it all goes down more smoothly in the opposite order.
I am (obviously) depraved.

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A Tale of Gnawing Deception… part 2 “In the Cauldron”

Posted on March 25, 2009

Double, double, toil and trouble...

Double, double, toil and trouble...

“Slip inside the eye of your mind, don’t you know you might find a better place to play…” Oasis

When we left the Girl (who had, until recently, been drifting blithely down the River of Bliss,) she was attempting to steady herself after a most startling run-in with Realization. Gnawing (now existing only as an unwieldy phantom menace) was chaotically
stirring the forbidden mental Cauldron containing the Girl’s most unruly and noxious thoughts; a very bad idea, indeed.

We rejoin the Girl mid-revelation:

I don’t know how to do this. I just don’t.
It is not in my grain to sit mildly within this disdainful world and not fight.
I swore to defend to the death, my right to live to the left.
I have tried to follow their rules.
I’ve investigated life in their pen…

It began as an experiment.
I’d only wanted to see how long it would take them to reveal me as a fraud.
I skillfully pose and pseudo-assimilate in the name of amalgamation, but always instinctively hide my knuckles as the Nun passes by brandishing her ruler.

If I’m honest (a rarity whilst aggressively practicing to deceive,) the uprising has been mounting since I realized that I hated Sundays.
It was then that I knew I had become one of them: a disciple of the ‘life-map.’
I’d begun as a mole, burrowing deeply to sway my detractors, but within that process I’d been unwittingly converted.
I lived for Friday and Saturday and lolled in the depths of depression each Sunday, staid in trepidation surrounding the coming week.

Which leads me here…to this moment.

And my typically mild-mannered inner Wanderlust has had it.
“Fuck T.G.I.F!” she yells “How about T.G.I.S.M.T.W.T.F.S????”
Then she is suddenly soft: “I miss our world; where the clouds race across the sky as we watch in admiration, where the water dances it’s morning ritual to greet each new day… no matter which day of the week…”
And she is right. She is 1000 percent correct.

And I know I must get us out. But I’ve no idea how.
It seems that extrication is a wee bit trickier than infiltration.
The Elders had given their requisite warning on the matter, but were aware that we would likely not hear them. Still, they advise that the warren is deep and maze-like, and can quickly rob an interloper of their most vital nutrients: perspective, creativity, and awe.

I knew they were right (but hadn’t been ready to admit it,) after the incident in the labyrinth last spring.
That was the last I’d seen of Gnawing but his message, unlike its bearer, was wholly
un-ambivalent; which frightened the stuff out of me.

But why had the Elders sent Gnawing, in the first place?
Goading and Provocation had both nudged the Girl into action in the past and, it should be noted, they’ve done so in far less crude and depraved manners.
Yet it was that impish, maverick Gnawing who’d been commissioned…
I marinate on this for months (you see, no one is as perspicacious in the depths of the darkness as they are in the light,) but it is only now, upon hearing the news of his alliance with Escapism, that I fully grasp the enormity of what comes next.
We’ve moved to Second Protocol.
Without me even recognizing that we were in active battle.

Into The Cauldron

When left unprovoked, the Cauldron is not hazardous.
It is kept at a carefully controlled boil, and serves as an emergency generator
for its neighbor to the north, Inspiration.
To hear the citizens of Inspiration tell it, the Cauldron has never been drawn upon as a power source for it’s exports, but the legend persists …

The tale, recounted only in muted whispers, chronicles a time of darkness long ago when the Elders were forced into the shadowy night to reap a potentially lethal bounty from the illicit Cauldron.
The legend states that this Cauldron-pillaging was carried out as a last-ditch effort toward the salvation of Inspiration, following an interminable period of drought.

Only the top Elders were invited to the sit down.
To look about the room, an ignorant passerby might have thought they’d stumbled upon a top-secret gambling hall or meeting of an elite underground society.
The space was thickly shrouded in smoke and the air hung heavy under weight of their impending decision.
The power struggle was evident even before a word had been spoken.
Entitlement, an ex-robber baron who, though retired, had never entirely let go of his unscrupulous business practices, sat at the head of the table with his consiglieri Extremism and Justification to his left and right, respectively.
On the opposite end, sat Warning, once considered a most capable commander but was by now considered a harbinger of fear and something of an alarmist.
His counsel: Refusal and Suspicion flanked him.
They shunned their everyday vernacular and spoke in unintelligible syntax meant to discourage any lurking snoops or rabble-rousers.
After a heated debate where even Ennui, the lowly foot solider guarding the door had shown signs of irritation, the leaders selected the crew they felt were most capable of handling this gravest of missions.
The team of three left just before dusk the following day and Operation Inspiration had officially begun.
The Elders called for radio silence as a show of respect for the men who’d gone and the potential sacrifice they might make.
Inspiration was hauntingly quiet for nearly a week.

But on the seventh day, everything changed. A glorious light flooded the town and its people tumbled into the streets.
They brushed the cobwebs from their hair and the sleep from their eyes.
Their minds rumbled groggily at first, but soon churned more rapidly than ever before. The citizens experienced tidal waves of creative energy and Inspiration thrived for decades without incident.
Of the three men who’d left that dusk, only one returned. He rarely spoke to anyone outside of his closest associates and he spoke of the incident at the Cauldron but one time when he said, “I saw myself in that forbidden place. I saw my virtue and I saw my most objectionable bits with equal clarity. I saw the life that we, the Inspired’s must be allowed to lead. And I knew then that whatever might come of releasing that psychotic bounty, would be worth it for what we would create.”
When asked about the fate of his comrades, he simply stated, “They were frightened of the beast. Rather than come back as cowards they walked east, to live out their days in Fear.”

Out of the hOle

I was four, almost five, when my great-grandfather died.
My mother brought me to the hospital after the doctor called to say that the situation didn’t look promising…
When she stepped into the hallway to speak with the nurse, he beckoned me close.
He quickly outlines the story of the Coup d’Inspiration, and instructs me to seek further details from my mother, when time permits.

He then requests my undivided attention and his green eyes sparkled and danced with a passion that made him look almost child-like.

He hugged my neck while he whispered slow and measured, as if trying to seer each syllable in to my youthful brain: “I lied. One of the men did leave to live in Fear but the other, I fought for. I believed him to be worth it. While he refused the Cauldron, he agreed to move to Diversion as he deliberated betwixt Inspiration and Fear. I’ve kept tabs on him these years, and he has a great-grandson who you will come to know. Beware him, but be unafraid. He is your Cauldron. In him you will see your fiercest darkness and most vivid light. He will reflect all you are, in fair and equal measure.”
His voice trailed off then, and we soon bade our final good-bye.

But I never forgot his words.
And even when I had no proof that they were not mere ramblings of a fading old man, I believed them to be true.
I repeated them daily as a mantra, so that time would never steal their power.

The first time I felt Gnawing’s presence, my great grandfathers words began repeating loudly in my brain. And when first I laid eyes on him, I knew that he was my Cauldron.

I’d wander and he’d follow. Sometimes he’d match my vim and vigour; sometimes he’d heartlessly disregard it (and me) altogether.

I recall these moments in my life and am fortified by their lessons.
Emboldened and newly determined to free myself from the tunnel, I set about finding Gnawing in his corporeal version. I know I must reclaim my Inspiration somehow, and I’d wholly rather seek him, in spite of how he vexes me so, than approach the forbidden pot unprotected; for were something to go awry, I might never return.

I might be forced to do as that coward had and move to east to live out my days in Fear.

I leave in search of Gnawing, but decide that if I spy Escapism along the way, I might do well to follow him for a bit, as Gnawing seems always to seek Escapism when he overwhelms himself…

The journey is long and at times discomfiting, but after 21 nights and 22 days I know that I am near.
Near to what precisely, I’ve no idea, but the light floods my vision just as my great grandfather had described, and the title wave of creativity swelled and crashed upon my being in the most scintillating manner.

I drift towards the light source, sure that Inspiration is at hand…and I am confident that Gnawing is also close by.
I search behind trees and under rocks, but he does not appear.
I fear I may have made a wrong turn somewhere (I’ve never been much for following directions or taking orders,) but that makes no sense, as I am clearly where I am supposed to be.

In the light. Splashing in waves of creativity.

It is then that my perception turns my surroundings a surly shade of grey and I am frozen in terror. I had expected to see the tiny town of Inspiration just over this hill, but instead I stand alone amongst the rocks and trees, staring directly at the fabled Cauldron …

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A Tale of Gnawing Deception (in multiple parts)…

Posted on March 21, 2009

It's an art, you know...

It's an art, you know...

“Oh, wonder! How many goodly creatures are there here!
How beauteous mankind is! O brave new world, That has such people in ‘t!”
~The Tempest

I’m thinking on materialism.
I’m considering who I was just a year ago.
What were my schemes and plans and obsessions?
Who was I being? What did I want?
I strive to remember that which felt important.
I cannot.

Hmph.
I just re-read this and think that it might be logical to skip over ‘materialism’ and move directly to ‘egotism,’ considering how this evening (like most evenings,) I seem staid in my standard self-important rhetorical deliberations.
Still, I shall try to remain on topic…
What was I saying?
Indeed…

I’ve recently acknowledged that my mid-08’ fixation on ‘things’ and ‘objects’ was a vain attempt to ignore the gnawing dissatisfaction which threatened to impinge upon the existence that I’d believed I’d wanted, and was quietly being asked to re-examine.

So, I ‘bought’ and I ‘did’ and I ‘organized’ and I ‘planned’ on the outside, while simultaneously engaging in a ferocious and ultimately futile mental race to outrun that obnoxious, niggling disquietude.

Just when I thought I’d lost him in the tunnel and the adrenaline rush began to cede, it was then, ah then, that I spied him…

Gnawing
stood no more than seven feet from my very nose, leaning smugly against the warren wall. He smokes his hand-rolled cigarette and openly sneers at my insolence.

I want so badly to be incensed that he’s bested me as he always does, but I cannot stop staring at his rugged hands long enough to muster any authentic anger.

Though with me, he speaks only in metaphors, rarely crossing the line into emotion, his hands defy his reticent conventions.
His long, tentacle-like fingers speak of a man who has touched many, yet has somehow rendered his own soul untouchable.
They appear elegant yet not at all prissy. Prissy, under-utilized fingers are the worst.
But these are not those.
These enrapture me and I imagine him to be one of those rare men who might nimbly roll his tobacco with one hand as he concurrently arouses your most sinful thoughts and carnal desires, with the other.

To be sure, I am the problem.
It is precisely these types of fanciful thoughts and indiscriminate assignments of quixotic characteristics, which perpetuate this madness. My madness.

You see, Gnawing and I are the oldest of associates, but like a stubborn child, I refuse to give credence to his claims of ‘inevitable victory,’ thus prolonging our tireless tit for tat.
But he is, of course, correct.
I am forever aware that even when I think he is gone, I am bound to find him again…likely, just round the next bend.
And he knows that I know, but that I cannot admit defeat; a fact he in turn, preys upon assiduously.

Gnawing is by far the most adept taskmaster of all the mental charlatans, for even when you can investigate no further and seek no more, he will unashamedly propel you deeper still.
I have learned tactics that occasionally result in brief respites from his daunting omnipresence, but Gnawing is never really gone for long.
At least, I hope that this is truth.
The fact is I have a secret crush on Gnawing.
I find him intoxicating and necessary.
He keeps me on my toes.

But back to the tale at hand…
It was late spring of 2008, when I suddenly lost sight of Gnawing.
I was mostly unconcerned, as he is known to be quite capricious (which I furtively adore), and I assumed he was perhaps drinking coffee with Denial or taking a weekend trip with Defense.

But something deeper was amiss.

Apparently, Gnawing was digging in and hunkering down. It was time to get serious.
Sick of our juvenile games, he phoned my arch-est of arch nemeses… Escapism.
And Escapism, that dastardly beast, absolutely could not wait to meet up with Gnawing and drink Mojitos, whilst reciprocally renewing each other’s resolve to ruin my resplendent reality.
Sigh.
Foolish me…
By now, I should know the danger of the lull…
I should know that any sense of security found therein is utterly false…yet still I toil first in hope and then in the massive upheaval which predictably follows.
It continues…

I learn of their alliance late one otherwise-inconsequential afternoon.
I consider approaching Gnawing directly, regarding creating an anti-alliance alliance. A sort of subcommittee of subterfuge, but I think better of it (super atypical action on my part.)

I am just about halfway through my ponderence on brokering a similar deal with Escapism, when suddenly I know what must be done…

The realization crashes upon my being and I am instantly sure that there is no choice in the matter.

If only it weren’t impossible.
Then the ghost of Gnawing (he does tend to haunt about my soul…) pipes up and reminds me that the insurmountable obstacles are the only ones of any interest anyway, and I’m off…

As to where I went … next time…

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