Saturday, March 23, 2013

A Life of Addictions

addiction (noun): the state of being enslaved to a habit or practice of to something that is psychologically or physically habit-forming, as narcotics, to such an extent that its cessation causes severe trauma.

Now, where should I start? Perhaps, aptly, for mornings: coffee. A swirling, numbing pain in both temple, if not. Cliched, when I say I can't start the engine. Words can be like mirrors - you hold them up straight, you glare hard: you love yourself, hence judgement is abandoned. That is but the deepest fear. But coffee is minor sin, compared to rage. I fell off the wagon yesterday. It got to me, like an untamed beast; and the beast became me. My superior remarked, half-jesting, that it'd only present me with high blood pressure; I wasn't half-listening; my heart was beating wildly. I know I am not that person. I know. Now that I hold the mirror up straight. But I need to do some more soul-searching.

There are the others. Some too disgusting to be printed: like wanking off (I almost forgot, this is my blog), where the world goes away behind door. Too late - it has been around too long. There is no more guilt like when I was younger; but at times, overclouding dismay. Perhaps, more positively, I can't cease my running regime. Once I did, and felt as if I was having a flu. It's a trap I suspect, becoming used to a certain amount of energy - that regular running gives - to function normally, anything less will not do.

Now this one I have to discount soon, given its waning power over me: 100 plus, or any energy drink after a run; it can cause tooth decay, and is not really more quenching than plain water, studies show. It was not easy; I can only cut it down progressively.

If having "me" time is an addiction, then I am it. Most days I have my own plan. Don't envy my luxury; this is the life I choose, but not without sacrifices. But it's more like habit, being in my comfort zone. So "comfort zone" is an addiction? Perhaps.

Now I wish I was addicted to change. No, that obviously wouldn't do for me. I need to read more though.

I am self-indulgent with my writing more than anything. But, no, it's no addiction: this writing, or whim.   

P.S.: Just finished reading my second W.Somerset Maugham's work, "The Moon and Sixpence", and Alfian Sa'at's "Invisible Manuscript". And no, reading is no addiction.

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