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Ya think?
Posted by The Splintered Chapters
on
10:06 AM
Ever since I picked up the highly enjoyable hobby of thinking, it was a tough feat giving it up. Not that the effort of being sober consumed me, because as much as I could hate it, I loved the exercise of getting lost in my own head.
There seemed to be no feeling in the world comparable to rolling a thought around over and over so the end result is warped and blown out of proportion in the twisted, self-hating confines of your mind. It’s almost, if you will excuse the sad attempt at irony, comforting, this idea of romanticism over such piteous inclinations.
The mental hurricane is something I’ve grown accustomed to, even enjoyed, and revolutionized, eventually, into something like a treat after a long, hard, uneventful day. My disturbing version of unwinding.
Of course, it isn’t all a bed of roses with this unconventional fad of over-thinking. The rotten thoughts sneak in (they’re all rotten, really, but this time I mean rotten rotten) and those are the demon children you wouldn’t want to see. Like if you had a hobby of knitting, cramped fingers would be the bad side of an otherwise healthy and fun past time (the definitive meaning of ‘healthy’ is subjective in this context). These cramps, the painful side of mulling over your thoughts, would lead to the occasional bouts of self-slapping, and these instances wouldn’t exactly be my pristine definition of a good time – I’m a pussy when it comes to inflicting pain - the slaps are half-hearted and, hence, only partially distracting, which is its main purpose. Most times though, sleep overtakes me, and things seem a hell lot better in the morning.
There are common topics that come with thinking. My personal favourite is ‘solitude’. My least favourite is ‘death’. In between, the subjects would cross over and mingle, sometimes being unique and fresh, sometimes giving me a vantage perspective of it, sometimes forming incomprehensible – even by my standards – corrupted garbage that would frustrate me so much I find solace in sustenance like the average kind.
But often, and I am thankful for these moments, thinking leaves me something to think about. It’s a wired condition of bad consciousness and the good that comes along with it. It’s the healthy sort of unhealthy. And despite the oxymoron, it’s a major tension releaser – because after you’ve thought so much about something, there really isn’t anything else to do: except to just let it go.
My Pseudonym Dilemma
There seemed to be no feeling in the world comparable to rolling a thought around over and over so the end result is warped and blown out of proportion in the twisted, self-hating confines of your mind. It’s almost, if you will excuse the sad attempt at irony, comforting, this idea of romanticism over such piteous inclinations.
The mental hurricane is something I’ve grown accustomed to, even enjoyed, and revolutionized, eventually, into something like a treat after a long, hard, uneventful day. My disturbing version of unwinding.
Of course, it isn’t all a bed of roses with this unconventional fad of over-thinking. The rotten thoughts sneak in (they’re all rotten, really, but this time I mean rotten rotten) and those are the demon children you wouldn’t want to see. Like if you had a hobby of knitting, cramped fingers would be the bad side of an otherwise healthy and fun past time (the definitive meaning of ‘healthy’ is subjective in this context). These cramps, the painful side of mulling over your thoughts, would lead to the occasional bouts of self-slapping, and these instances wouldn’t exactly be my pristine definition of a good time – I’m a pussy when it comes to inflicting pain - the slaps are half-hearted and, hence, only partially distracting, which is its main purpose. Most times though, sleep overtakes me, and things seem a hell lot better in the morning.
There are common topics that come with thinking. My personal favourite is ‘solitude’. My least favourite is ‘death’. In between, the subjects would cross over and mingle, sometimes being unique and fresh, sometimes giving me a vantage perspective of it, sometimes forming incomprehensible – even by my standards – corrupted garbage that would frustrate me so much I find solace in sustenance like the average kind.
But often, and I am thankful for these moments, thinking leaves me something to think about. It’s a wired condition of bad consciousness and the good that comes along with it. It’s the healthy sort of unhealthy. And despite the oxymoron, it’s a major tension releaser – because after you’ve thought so much about something, there really isn’t anything else to do: except to just let it go.
My Pseudonym Dilemma