
I have practiced numbness by taking and taking and barely getting half way full.
A disjointed internal monologue loops:
But maybe this time around it won’t be that way / You’ve done it before / But not in this way / Maybe I can try again / Maybe is not a definitive yes /
The old sage inside me negotiates with the hedonistic teenager, but the teen is adamant, she wants to experience. Fuck the French man, pop MDMA, overload on Brie. Namely, she surfs the cheap swells of life until she’s popped off her board and hit in the face.
The seeking depends on the seeker and most seekers are poor. The perennial desire of desire is pain. The teen wants to hurt because it means she can feel.
The old sage just wants to get on with it, and rest in the wisdom beyond what the world refuses to give. There is nothing out there that interests her. Just the peace inside, that self arising thing outside the web of neediness.
The teeager and the sage agree on one thing: I can be in the gutter or on the throne, either way it's happening inside my head. But this head is insatiable, and satisfaction is near but never close enough.
Comments