I’m back. After three years of a writing drought I finally decided to get my lazy ass putting some words on a page. Sitting here smoking a nearly finished vape and tasting the somewhat burnt flavour of an almost finished tank I wonder what took me so long to? I think the answer to this is obvious: it doesn’t matter. What does however, is that for whatever reason, words are appearing in front of me on this computer screen. The topic that has popped into my head relates to balance. Or more specifically, much as I verbalize and think that I strive for it, the truthful acknowledgment is that I mostly hate it.
I hate how stagnant it feels. Proper eating, sleeping, creating, certainly it provides me with a clear mind, but where’s the fun in that? I had a phrase I was fond of saying when I was younger and I find it still suits my thinking now, although I say it less: I feel today, disgustingly sober. I know that sounds dark. It is. I’m a dark person. I say that with some sense of pride as I firmly believe to transcend being an utterly boring individual that a little darkness in our personality—more often a lot—is required. Sheep get slaughtered by wolves and so on. I’ve realized through following this train of thought to it’s conclusion that I cannot embody this state of being constantly for pragmatic reasons. A mind and body given over to the sort of excess I enjoy degrades rapidly.
Perhaps the more interesting conclusion I’ve drawn from this realization is that one way or another If I can’t find my way out to some deliciously fun negative extreme, then to get some semblance of that high, I strike out in the other direction. I find life most interesting at each of its poles so to speak. If I can’t sustain destruction, then how about creation. If I’m totally honest with myself I enjoy each equally. I’m the one at the party sadly looking around as the sun comes up, wishing, desperate for a few more minutes of indulgence, a few more breaths taking down that sweet tobacco, before the sun turns me in to stone. And at the other end, the last guy in the gym, staying late at the library to study, cutting that one last calorie out of my diet to reach blissful intermittently fasted autophagy.
I wonder where it comes from? Dopamine, yes that’s the answer. But I wonder what in my history, what in my genetics makes me so prone to suckling at that neurotransmitter’s teat in any way I can? My brain is never satisfied with the volume at ten, it must be set to max. It doesn’t matter the context, that’s essentially what I’m saying. Was it some childhood trauma? Maybe. Or perhaps, I am not so exotic as I imagine myself. This could in fact be something many more experience than I conceive of. Although, I don’t think so. People around me seem far more content with being reasonable. And at last, I wouldn’t change it for the world. For better or worse it is who I am. And when I set my mind to think critically of it, I do achieve unusual things as a result. The question does remain how useful, healthy, or productive those things are? But by god I achieve them, and few others do!