Sunday Mornings

I love Sunday mornings, particularly the ones where I haven’t been out binge drinking the night before.  It’s been a while since I really did that, but I don’t miss those.

A little buzz to loosen the tongue is fine, but to lose focus?  To drink so much that it’s all an uncaring blur, a cuss-ridden stumble through the throngs or someone’s kitchen to an inevitable unconscious end?

I never was a puker.

I can probably count on one hand the number of times I’ve thrown up from drinking.

Sundays used to mean mushrooms, back when I had a supplier.  Sunday morning third eye open, with giggles and thoughts and writing that makes me cringe now, but still shows some expansive thinking.

There’s something beautiful in a brain being shut off.

Or at least, the background noise silenced.

Felt sense, so to speak.  Presence, without words, creating words, picked carefully or streamed out of the ether, the ocean of energy that connects us all.

I do miss mushroom Sunday, even though it would hardly suit me anymore.

As I decided in Jeopardy, drugs are not a solution.  They are a tool or a curse, like this drive to discover the meaning of it all.  This obsession with world creation, expansion.  Feed it and it can take you to higher planes.  Ignore it and it can cast you into Dante’s Inferno.

Of course, the whole ride is one of pure insanity, the conceited presumption of actually being able to figure it all out, while suppressing mightily the boiling oils that swarm underneath, the craziness that this makes out of life, alive and insane, free, but on the verge of asylum.

Drugs don’t help with that if used to avoid it.  Like any endeavour, any experience, the purpose is the factor behind whether it serves us or kills us.

Everything is a tool.  Everything is a lesson.

Everything is an oppressor.  Everything destroys.

I’ve been reading too much Hickman.

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