Realistically, we don’t have all the time in the world. We used to. Standing in the lane running experiments on my mind to see if I could crack if if I went very fast, or refused to use words. Or let’s see how many days I can go without sleep and what that does to perception. Now no sleep and no food, just for kicks. Push prayer past the contrite and remorse, until a high breaks out.
those games of how we’d get where we were getting
without touching the brake, a no-winner dare
that often bluntly ended in the unsnapped tension
of guardrail wires, or brunt of country ditches.
Out of your head, you must have thought
you were immortal. Well, maybe we all did.
Now wild and crazy risk is taking an unplanned choice of bus that may not get me there on time, but might. Or eating a truffle at 8pm knowing my cutoff for chocolate is 4pm or else my sleep is disrupted and mood will be impacted the next day, and the clarity of mind and maybe if I’m too restless in the night, the cat will be in a bad mood and hubby will be tired the next evening and that would be inconsiderate.
All that fine tuning to optimal makes for better results, a great calibration of knowing my tolerances, causes and effect but adds a lot of safety constraints. If you genuinely can’t predict your limits or consequences, you can do things you’d never do if you knew. A little ignorance goes a long way. How to get into a place of ignorance and disorientation so the gut instinct has more to do?
I need the novel. Verified facts would be nice. On-board logic helps. And entraining compassion. I also need guidance other than that hard-wired superstition. For example, I go to send an email to a friend and the email program crashes. Um, Universe, was that you? Were you vetoing or urging me to press on despite any obstacle? Or it’s just a thing.
When I was a kid and my uncle was towards retirement he looked around at his triple-shelved books on all the walls and said in a haunted voice, I’ve read more than I’ll ever have time in my life to reread.
Twenty years later that would be echoed by my mom in a low spot where she wiped her hands of gardening saying what’s the use of planting another plum tree. I won’t live long enough to see it make fruit.
Depression also has that sort of self-limiting effect. The nature of the beastie is putting up walls, a sandstorm of reactivity looking for the mental framework to justify itself. You get to think these verbal reasons are what it’s about but its aboutness is flail.
Part of my brain of course stores it up in a drawer with bits of rafia and the snort-laugh of a friend dead for over 15 years. I’ve learned more than I can retain or explain. I have to assume my instinct is calling on all that when I make an intuitive flow. That flow isn’t one thing. Any parasitic motivation can be calling the shots. I think I crave french fries, but really my non-verbal lower brain is hoping to scope out pretty server. Or I think I had a bad dream so want to put out a deck of cards to calm the mind but actually its the anniversary of my dad’s brain injury accident and parallel solitaire is what we did together for years. Does the verbal brain need to know what the body-memory is looking after. It’s covered.
There may be reasons for the hormonal cascade, dozens of reasons in every direction of time and space of why life sucks, horrid provocations/excuses, but given the same details, it may be The Biggest Final Straw in the Universe and Life is Despair, or not. My computer ran out of memory (and dufus-ly I didn’t have it saved) when it crashed and lost hours of work. I lay as a tightly wound ball on the floor and the cat sensed distress. Little empathic being that she is she trotted over. She came, sniffed me over and then, this time, shrugged her little furry shoulders and declared this to be Not A Thing. Feline Buddha said, get over yourself. While you’re doing that, I’m going to go eat.