I used to write a lot. Of course, there were other things I used to do as well. Writing was one of them. Massages, too. (No, not the happy ending variety…). tui na, specifically. Made me feel like I was in an alternate universe for a while. It was a peaceful, transcendental kind of feeling.
Back then, I went into debt to chase that ever fleeting feeling of transcendence. Twice, really. Then, the realization of the responsibilities of my life set in and I could no longer enjoy those pleasures, at least for a while.
opium took me back to that place, though brief it was. A primal sort of consciousness somehow mediated by the stomach? wtf? I’d never really made peace with my stomach, at least until the past few weeks. Growing up, I could never quite afford that which I really wanted to eat (never mind that I didn’t know what the fuck was out there, anyway) and being somewhat grown, I had such an appetite that essentially laid my wallet to ruins.
Now, thanks to Sertraline (and heaping helpings of ginger to keep it down), my stomach has a much louder voice now. Maybe like that person in the steam engine boiler room who has to put in coal. I don’t fucking know
Sometimes my stomach craves the opium again. It’s like a love letter to the basic senses, at the expense of the sixth one of intuition. Remembering those days being in bed fetal style succumbing to the sweet (and it is sweet) sickness of intoxication so subtle, and people wanting to help you because you’re so sick. A learned helplessness, so to speak.
All isn’t well in the land of artificial endorphins, before you get the wrong idea. Things get lost along the way, like giving a duck about things. Sometimes it can be good, but it wasn’t for me at the time. Understandably, such a substance is well placed in the service of those in pain… but I must admit, it just ain’t for me right now.
Just random thoughts…