A Fine Choice of Poisons

We all medicate our lives, minds and mal-adaptive habits with a plethora of substances and stimuli. I drink to sleep, and smoke to enact some selfish self-destructive drive. But our drugs come in more forms than bottles, stamps and television tubes. We can become addicted to the sound of an abusive lover’s screams. In their violence may reverberate the loathing you have held private for so long. Now as he screams, you can hate yourself openly and freely. This is by far no crazier than inhaling carcinogens or downing glass after glass of gorgon’s blood till one’s liver turns to stone.

This is by no means an inquisition of harmful pastimes. I for one have never been so fond of my reflection that I did not punish myself for a few moments reprise from sanity. In fact, some times the destructive elements are what make it so alluring.

Ours minds are prone to strangely intricate flailing in a dark room, metaphorically speaking of course. And like a retard with a machine gun, if not under control, could hurt some one. The best way to chain down the gun totting spaz that is our own mind is to understand why we run away in the direction that we do.

Very seldom do we ask ourselves, whilst in the midst of our escapism, what kind of person would do this. In fact we seldom ask ourselves that whilst doing anything. Even if the answer does not fit into the puzzle that you call “you”, one must wonder if that is the type of person you wan to be. A person tends to act in a manner that corresponds with their idea of self, often not a very nice one. The process goes as such; I am this, but I want to be that, seeing as I am not that then I must be less than this. Often the good parts of ‘this’ are over shadowed by the idealistic elements in ‘that’ to the point that ‘this’ is as unrealistic as ‘that’.

Even the most basic inquiries into what we do, why we do it and who would do such a thing, can result in surprisingly deep revelations about one’s construction of identity. It is a practice that our society has taken to mobbing with pitchforks and torches with great zeal. Any personal empathy or emotional exposition is considered unnecessary pandering or insufficiently ironic. The result is a generation of emotionally blind cocks, running randomly into any worm labia that will house them. Sloppy form combined with uncertain fashion leads to useless function.

Even Socrates drank hemlock, but at least he knew why he was doing it. It was an informed decision that was the result of careful analysis of self and an understanding of social repercussions. The afore mentioned are so lacking from today’s society that in the midst of a mass’s revelry I find I it difficult to not stop and stare at the jerking unaware mannequins, who distort their faces as to not recognize it. I must admit, frequently touch myself at the thought of being far more evolved than the squirming masses that passes of as people nowadays; often lubricated by the tears of, “why don’t you like me”, to add some spicy self loathing.
I must leave now. The bar is calling my name. A name I tought it to call.