Let me put on my faux psychologist hat now and talk about the victim mentality and how I have become a willing slave to my work after being repeatedly raped and abused and cared for in a systematic or to be precise in an organized chaotic matter so that I am left confused and submissive. Every single day, I die a little death and as I put myself to sleep, what remains of me is more of a husk wanting to be used more and more the next day.
To be clear, my work is not willfully doing this to me. Work after all is just work. It's just that it turned out that this work has become for me an abusive monster.
It's not that the work is impossible but it's just the way it's setup. I thought that working from home would give me a lot of free time to work on other interests. Instead, what is supposed to be a simple 9 to 6 job became an unbounded cornucopia of tasks which ate up all my time. The problem was as my workplace is the same as my home, time became a meaningless element. So long as I was online, it appears that I am still duty-bound to work.
I wake up everyday looking forward to the end of the day when I would no longer have to work but then what is the end of the day for me? It appears that the end of the day comes when I am no longer needed or no longer online. It does not happen that often of course as I may be called up to go back to work.
So I just go through the motions of the day looking forward to the time when I can peacefully go offline. When I do, I am plagued by concerns of what was going on and whether I could relax or would I be receiving a call to haul me back to work.
Every activity at home which once provided me with comfort and joy are now tainted with being part of the job. Work never ends while I am at home. Work ends when I am without and that does not happen very often now. By the time I go offline or when weekend comes along, I am just too exhausted by the weight of having to force myself to go through my work.
The pay is good. I cannot complain about that. However, I feel like I am becoming less and less of who and what I want to be. I am becoming a soulless automaton.
I just do not know where to go.
Thursday, November 18
Tuesday, November 16
The Late Great Highschool
Back in the day when grades appear to matter, I was lucky enough to have exuded enough character to be tagged as a potential do-gooder, leader type. Of course, it was all a matter of personal taste among the teachers, for which I am eternally grateful that I was not relegated to the backdrop and was in fact grouped with the smart kids. Like all those who were trained in the archaic theories of education, my school decided to make me into all things I am not and would not want to be. I was made to sing, to dance, to act on stage instead of focusing on and honing my greatest strength which was slouching around.
Anyway, I cannot really complain. It removed a lot of shyness from me and put in a lot of shame. To this day, I have not the courage to speak up when needed having been shamed into silence. Sure we got freebies, like grades, in exchange for being forced to sell tickets to fund whatever project the white penguins could think of.
Still, I have very happy memories of highschool and factoring in the fact that I was bullied in my first year, it still was the best years of my life. Since my good friend Doctor Immortus has regurgitated another HS memory pearl, which this time is not something I wished died with the last pope, I decided to pour out a few of my best, funny, happy memories of Highschool.
I guess my favorite year was my second year. A lot of things happened that year and I was blessed to have been put in the same section as the really crazy and unruly kids in school.
It was the year when during Health class, our teacher clad in porn-nurse outfit made us stand out of the room. Lacking the strength to strap us down herself, she later called our adviser to make us stand under the hot afternoon sun until the Flag Retreat ceremony forced us to seek shelter from the prying eyes of half the student populace who failed to see as they were chained to their seats.
The cause of such inhuman punishment was nothing more than our silly game of throwing munggo beans at each other. Somehow, it became addicting to throw a fistful of small, hard beans at another person and then frantically pick-up those same beans before the other got the chance to do so. After which, you just had to throw the diminished number of beans on hand and repeat the cycle.
Somehow, it was all worth it.
It was also the year of Professor Chicken Hawk who was reported to be gay who preyed on young dickheads which is how you can describe most highschool boys. The reports are varied from the tale of him being a corner-parlor-pederast, the type that screech and shriek instead of talking, to that of his showing the impressionable, Catholic schoolboys an album filled with other boys in their underwear.
Somehow, my peer group managed to be at the top of the list of rumor mongers. It did help that our good friend, the authority lapdog, General Jaepen Sur decided to share in one of the then in-season 'open forums' that '[Callistus] and company said [this miscarriage-causing horror of a tale].' Yeah, some shit like that.
Sure enough, during one of the time-consuming activities when they did not want us to learn anything important like math, science, grammar and literature, we were summoned to the dreaded Office of the Directress. It was like the topmost in the hierarchy of Offices where screw-ups get summoned.
So we were there, all five of us who mattered, seated at the long table. Our crone of a Directress, wobbled like a pole balanced on a hand to the head chair. She began to make us feel at ease, asking us in kind tones what we heard or knew about Professor Hawk. We gave calculated, non-specific snippets of stories at first which she kindly swallowed as whole truths.
Now, being schooled in interrogation by Barney and the Teletubbies, our Directress decided that she had a meeting to attend to and had to leave us to ourselves. She left us a pad of paper on which we write what we heard and from whom we heard them. Any half-wit would of course not leave me and Doctor Immortus to write something which will be taken as official affidavits of sorts but our Directress being more of saintly lackwit did just that.
It was a very happy hour indeed. General Athena was the default secretary, having good penmanship and being the only female in the group. We wrote our fictional account of what we do know and from whom we heard those said stories. They had enough smattering of truth to be valid. With Chancellor Jaepen Matos being part of the group, it had enough stamp of authenticity that the white and gray penguins would have sworn on the sheet of paper if no bible was lying around.
Falcon Red was also with us but he was a little more timid back then and just wanted to get out of the office fast. Now, he's like this filthy rich lord of unwashed peons that I always smile whenever I recall him hurrying us up to get it over with.
It was also the year when after some talk on another topic which was so important to skip regular class instruction, we were served snacks. It was a surprise as we were not charged 100 pesos beforehand. In any case, the one who distributed the ensaymada and zest-o decided that the most efficient way to do so was by throwing it across the room to whoever needed bread and juice. We were served refugee-style and this did not sit well with one class adviser. She gave her class an earful on begin barbaric and uncouth.
There were other stories from other years. I'll write them some other time.
Anyway, I cannot really complain. It removed a lot of shyness from me and put in a lot of shame. To this day, I have not the courage to speak up when needed having been shamed into silence. Sure we got freebies, like grades, in exchange for being forced to sell tickets to fund whatever project the white penguins could think of.
Still, I have very happy memories of highschool and factoring in the fact that I was bullied in my first year, it still was the best years of my life. Since my good friend Doctor Immortus has regurgitated another HS memory pearl, which this time is not something I wished died with the last pope, I decided to pour out a few of my best, funny, happy memories of Highschool.
I guess my favorite year was my second year. A lot of things happened that year and I was blessed to have been put in the same section as the really crazy and unruly kids in school.
It was the year when during Health class, our teacher clad in porn-nurse outfit made us stand out of the room. Lacking the strength to strap us down herself, she later called our adviser to make us stand under the hot afternoon sun until the Flag Retreat ceremony forced us to seek shelter from the prying eyes of half the student populace who failed to see as they were chained to their seats.
The cause of such inhuman punishment was nothing more than our silly game of throwing munggo beans at each other. Somehow, it became addicting to throw a fistful of small, hard beans at another person and then frantically pick-up those same beans before the other got the chance to do so. After which, you just had to throw the diminished number of beans on hand and repeat the cycle.
Somehow, it was all worth it.
It was also the year of Professor Chicken Hawk who was reported to be gay who preyed on young dickheads which is how you can describe most highschool boys. The reports are varied from the tale of him being a corner-parlor-pederast, the type that screech and shriek instead of talking, to that of his showing the impressionable, Catholic schoolboys an album filled with other boys in their underwear.
Somehow, my peer group managed to be at the top of the list of rumor mongers. It did help that our good friend, the authority lapdog, General Jaepen Sur decided to share in one of the then in-season 'open forums' that '[Callistus] and company said [this miscarriage-causing horror of a tale].' Yeah, some shit like that.
Sure enough, during one of the time-consuming activities when they did not want us to learn anything important like math, science, grammar and literature, we were summoned to the dreaded Office of the Directress. It was like the topmost in the hierarchy of Offices where screw-ups get summoned.
So we were there, all five of us who mattered, seated at the long table. Our crone of a Directress, wobbled like a pole balanced on a hand to the head chair. She began to make us feel at ease, asking us in kind tones what we heard or knew about Professor Hawk. We gave calculated, non-specific snippets of stories at first which she kindly swallowed as whole truths.
Now, being schooled in interrogation by Barney and the Teletubbies, our Directress decided that she had a meeting to attend to and had to leave us to ourselves. She left us a pad of paper on which we write what we heard and from whom we heard them. Any half-wit would of course not leave me and Doctor Immortus to write something which will be taken as official affidavits of sorts but our Directress being more of saintly lackwit did just that.
It was a very happy hour indeed. General Athena was the default secretary, having good penmanship and being the only female in the group. We wrote our fictional account of what we do know and from whom we heard those said stories. They had enough smattering of truth to be valid. With Chancellor Jaepen Matos being part of the group, it had enough stamp of authenticity that the white and gray penguins would have sworn on the sheet of paper if no bible was lying around.
Falcon Red was also with us but he was a little more timid back then and just wanted to get out of the office fast. Now, he's like this filthy rich lord of unwashed peons that I always smile whenever I recall him hurrying us up to get it over with.
It was also the year when after some talk on another topic which was so important to skip regular class instruction, we were served snacks. It was a surprise as we were not charged 100 pesos beforehand. In any case, the one who distributed the ensaymada and zest-o decided that the most efficient way to do so was by throwing it across the room to whoever needed bread and juice. We were served refugee-style and this did not sit well with one class adviser. She gave her class an earful on begin barbaric and uncouth.
There were other stories from other years. I'll write them some other time.
Wednesday, November 10
What If I Wanted to Eat Dog Meat
I guess I cannot do so now since it is against the Law. Seriously, why should the Government dictate which animals I can or cannot eat. Sure, future generations may want to see a turtle or two and being endangered, I have nothing against that. What about dogs? Are dogs endangered?
I'm not about to snatch anyone's pet. I am thinking we raise dogs like livestock. If we can corral pigs, cows, goats and other four-legged, tasty animals, we can sure as hell put dogs in pens if we like.
So we fix the problem of having people dying because they ate some rabies-infected canine snapped off the street. Sure, you can claim that any person can just get a wandering dog and butcher it and serve it up.
Well, we can say the same about any livestock. Unfortunately, there are not that many who have chickens or pigs or cows as pets but the argument remain valid. Stealing is stealing regardless of what you steal.
Yes, even movies and songs but I doubt many dog-defenders are raising cudgels against movie and music pirates. Heaven forbid that you butcher a dog though, cause that one is unforgivable.
Wait, am I advocating the violent treatment of dogs? I keep saying butcher the dog. Well, no shit. To butcher an animal is what you do to kill it and prepare it into some tasty meal. I am not advocating that we tie up some dog and poke it with hot iron rods or anything so brutal but let's be honest, we butcher animals because we eat them.
What makes a dog so special? It's smart and a companion you say? No shit?! Sure, any animal may display some level of intelligence but they remain just that: animals. We do not raise them into levels of humans because in that way we are lowering ourselves into their level.
Consider the 'advanced' western culture which condemns dog eaters. They have the gall to call those who savor dogs as barbarians and yet, they are the same people who have no problem letting unborn people be murdered in their womb. As I have heard it put, "They have placed Nature above Man."
My point is we can love animals and all that but let us not forget that their purpose is food and clothing and whatever else we may extract from them. We cultivate them and harvest them responsibly to provide a sustainable flow of supply.
We cannot let others dictate what we can eat. We cannot treat animals above or equal to humans.
I'm not about to snatch anyone's pet. I am thinking we raise dogs like livestock. If we can corral pigs, cows, goats and other four-legged, tasty animals, we can sure as hell put dogs in pens if we like.
So we fix the problem of having people dying because they ate some rabies-infected canine snapped off the street. Sure, you can claim that any person can just get a wandering dog and butcher it and serve it up.
Well, we can say the same about any livestock. Unfortunately, there are not that many who have chickens or pigs or cows as pets but the argument remain valid. Stealing is stealing regardless of what you steal.
Yes, even movies and songs but I doubt many dog-defenders are raising cudgels against movie and music pirates. Heaven forbid that you butcher a dog though, cause that one is unforgivable.
Wait, am I advocating the violent treatment of dogs? I keep saying butcher the dog. Well, no shit. To butcher an animal is what you do to kill it and prepare it into some tasty meal. I am not advocating that we tie up some dog and poke it with hot iron rods or anything so brutal but let's be honest, we butcher animals because we eat them.
What makes a dog so special? It's smart and a companion you say? No shit?! Sure, any animal may display some level of intelligence but they remain just that: animals. We do not raise them into levels of humans because in that way we are lowering ourselves into their level.
Consider the 'advanced' western culture which condemns dog eaters. They have the gall to call those who savor dogs as barbarians and yet, they are the same people who have no problem letting unborn people be murdered in their womb. As I have heard it put, "They have placed Nature above Man."
My point is we can love animals and all that but let us not forget that their purpose is food and clothing and whatever else we may extract from them. We cultivate them and harvest them responsibly to provide a sustainable flow of supply.
We cannot let others dictate what we can eat. We cannot treat animals above or equal to humans.
Monday, November 8
Y-Stuff
I've a group of friends with whom I'm close enough to tell them really gritty stuff. The kind of stuff that would make my grandmother, bless her soul, cringe in shame if she were alive. These days, if she only knew of the stuff I tell my friends, she'd claw her way up from the grave and bitch-slap me. Having recently passed through the veil, much to my sadness and regret, I would rather she remain at rest in the bosom of the Creator, as they say. So for this and succeeding posts, I will never divulge specifics on any of the stuff I tell my friends.
What do I tell my friends? Let's just say that I tell them really bad stuff I should really reserve for my confessor but heck, if I can tell some ordained, impersonal, doubtful-if-chaste guy these things I should as hell can tell my friends. Unlike the priests and their seals, I could not keep my friends from spreading all the crazy shit I have been telling them over the years. I just naively trust in their keeping my secrets.
Not too naively, I do not share all my secrets and I do not share to all my friends.
Then, there's a graduation of secrets and friends. Some secrets can only be shared to certain friends. Take for instance this one time in band camp, when this really bad thing happened. Well, not that bad really but something equally bad and I was so guilt-stricken that I felt like my mind was swimming the whole day and I needed to talk to someone to get it off my chest.
So I scrolled down my contact list until I came upon the name of my old rogue friend. I immediately sent him an SMS saying I needed to tell him some deeply, disturbing act which shook my very core. It went against my real self, the soul of my soul, so much so that it rocked my reality.
Looking back, I should have used my altered perception of reality in order to remake the world according to my will but as it seems, my will is not that strong in the first place. If I had been strong, I would not have gone through doing the reality-shaking act that I did.
In any case, my good friend, Prince Zuko was kind enough to agree to hear my confession but as he well knew that he was not the top man in my usual list of confessors, he asked if I had the chance to tell the Red Mage Jenna or the Waterbender Katara. I replied with the answer that needs no explanation: "It's a guy thing."
In our Art, Prince Zuko orginally expressed it as
GuyThing = (sex || drugs) && violence
In a later conversation, he expressed it as
GuyThing = (sex || violence || pride)
The last one being more accurate. The key elements of the Y-chromosome, he calls them. I guess these explain the old rhyme.
What are little boys made of?
Snips and snails, and puppy dogs tails
That's what little boys are made of !
Anyway, going back to my story, I did get to tell my friend about my dastardly act and he listened and objectively gave sound, if not morally conservative advice. In a nutshell, he said that what I did was not for the general public and specifically not for me.
It was one of my better confessions. I got off with an admonishment not to do it again as I was improperly equipped with something called a conscience. Of course, in typical guy fashion, I got high praises for scoring big in the grand scale of stupid things that guys do.
Good stuff.
Sunday, November 7
Hi My Name is Callistus Netromedev...
and I am a sex addict.
I guess this is the first step: admit that I have a problem.
It was three weeks ago. I was lured into a supposed meet up where all my family and friends were waiting for me. There they told me of their unconditional love and how they accepted me for who and what I was but I must also face my problems. I was hurting myself and my loved ones by continuing on my self-destructive path of sex addiction.
They were all there. My mom was crying , my father was trying to remain calm but spoke with his voice breaking. My kuya was there speaking in the crisp, serious but caring tone he always had when talking of sensitive matters. Even my estranged, mad sister was there, taking her time off her anger management therapy in order to stand there silently judging with eyes showing nothing but scorn.
My aunts and cousins were there as well. Though, I think the latter were there to sponsor the food. That in itself was touching. My aunts were half-hysterical when they tried to remind me of the true Christian path and how I was so far out they feared for my soul.
There were close friends as well. Most of those who were at my birthday lunch celebration came to express their support of my rehabilitation. Some even gave testimonies to evidences of my addiction. By the time my third blocmate began sharing her knowledge of my leather implements, my eldest aunt had hyperventilated, half my cousins scrambled to get her to the hospital.
This terrible event did not prevent my HS friend from divulging my outrageous stash of porn DVD's which I accumulated from way back. By now, my mom had to excuse herself having felt her blood pressure shoot up.
I was mad. Angry mad that is. Not mad like in the context our elementary principal understood my classmate when he called her a mad teacher. It was funny how our principal coerced my classmate to admit that it was he not our principal who was mad, a tale for another day.
I was embarrassed, shamed! My family and friends conspired to accuse me of something they had no right to accuse me of. Sure I had thousands of pesos worth of pornography and sex toys but that was my business. They had no right to bring it before everyone and judge me like I was some pervert.
I stormed out.
My closest friends went after me and convinced me to stay. It took awhile before I calmed down. At first I was so angry and ashamed that I was speechless but after sometime, the anger went away and only the shame remained.
I began to cry. I went back to the place. I apologized to everyone who was there. They all came to me and hugged me or patted me on the back. All of them telling me they forgive me and they love me.
That was three weeks ago. Now, I can admit to everyone that I have a problem. I am fixing it.
Well, that was a nice story. At least I hope it was.
No group of family and friends came together to give me an intervention. I had been hoping something like that would happen. Like in one of those feel good movies or even comedies on TV or dramedies like Dr. Phil's segment on Oprah or his own show which I never got to see.
This confession was elicited from me by a friend during an online conversation. I just commented on his Facebook picture saying that he looked like a pornstar. In truth, there was nothing sexual about the picture at all. Only a third of his body can be seen and he was fully clothed and was in what appears to be a mall.
I only got the pornstar vibe from his expression which was akin to the pseudo-ecstatic-borderline-pain expressions petite women have in porn... Somehow, he captured it perfectly.
Anyway, during chat he observed that I was always thinking about sex. To be fair, I may have been talking to him about guy stuff a lot. As another friend defined 'guy stuff': it's sex or violence or pride. In our conversations, well, you take your pick.
So, I told him, "Yeah well, you see, I'm a sex addict."
"Really?" He replied, clearly incredulous. "Who's you're partner? Yourself?"
I was quick to admit. "Yep. Just like you."
After a few seconds, I realized I was mistaken so I corrected myself. "Sorry. I have one more than you."
I guess this is the first step: admit that I have a problem.
It was three weeks ago. I was lured into a supposed meet up where all my family and friends were waiting for me. There they told me of their unconditional love and how they accepted me for who and what I was but I must also face my problems. I was hurting myself and my loved ones by continuing on my self-destructive path of sex addiction.
They were all there. My mom was crying , my father was trying to remain calm but spoke with his voice breaking. My kuya was there speaking in the crisp, serious but caring tone he always had when talking of sensitive matters. Even my estranged, mad sister was there, taking her time off her anger management therapy in order to stand there silently judging with eyes showing nothing but scorn.
My aunts and cousins were there as well. Though, I think the latter were there to sponsor the food. That in itself was touching. My aunts were half-hysterical when they tried to remind me of the true Christian path and how I was so far out they feared for my soul.
There were close friends as well. Most of those who were at my birthday lunch celebration came to express their support of my rehabilitation. Some even gave testimonies to evidences of my addiction. By the time my third blocmate began sharing her knowledge of my leather implements, my eldest aunt had hyperventilated, half my cousins scrambled to get her to the hospital.
This terrible event did not prevent my HS friend from divulging my outrageous stash of porn DVD's which I accumulated from way back. By now, my mom had to excuse herself having felt her blood pressure shoot up.
I was mad. Angry mad that is. Not mad like in the context our elementary principal understood my classmate when he called her a mad teacher. It was funny how our principal coerced my classmate to admit that it was he not our principal who was mad, a tale for another day.
I was embarrassed, shamed! My family and friends conspired to accuse me of something they had no right to accuse me of. Sure I had thousands of pesos worth of pornography and sex toys but that was my business. They had no right to bring it before everyone and judge me like I was some pervert.
I stormed out.
My closest friends went after me and convinced me to stay. It took awhile before I calmed down. At first I was so angry and ashamed that I was speechless but after sometime, the anger went away and only the shame remained.
I began to cry. I went back to the place. I apologized to everyone who was there. They all came to me and hugged me or patted me on the back. All of them telling me they forgive me and they love me.
That was three weeks ago. Now, I can admit to everyone that I have a problem. I am fixing it.
Well, that was a nice story. At least I hope it was.
No group of family and friends came together to give me an intervention. I had been hoping something like that would happen. Like in one of those feel good movies or even comedies on TV or dramedies like Dr. Phil's segment on Oprah or his own show which I never got to see.
This confession was elicited from me by a friend during an online conversation. I just commented on his Facebook picture saying that he looked like a pornstar. In truth, there was nothing sexual about the picture at all. Only a third of his body can be seen and he was fully clothed and was in what appears to be a mall.
I only got the pornstar vibe from his expression which was akin to the pseudo-ecstatic-borderline-pain expressions petite women have in porn... Somehow, he captured it perfectly.
Anyway, during chat he observed that I was always thinking about sex. To be fair, I may have been talking to him about guy stuff a lot. As another friend defined 'guy stuff': it's sex or violence or pride. In our conversations, well, you take your pick.
So, I told him, "Yeah well, you see, I'm a sex addict."
"Really?" He replied, clearly incredulous. "Who's you're partner? Yourself?"
I was quick to admit. "Yep. Just like you."
After a few seconds, I realized I was mistaken so I corrected myself. "Sorry. I have one more than you."
Monday, November 1
Trudging through the Muck
Here you are again, following the Old Patterns.
You are foolish to think that you have broken free. You thought that you have cut the strings and are no longer humming another's tune, are singing another's song, are reciting dialog from some hackneyed playwright's script. Yet here you are, mouthing the oft-spoken words, singing off-key and droning a tune you could not keep out of your head.
Ignorance is indeed bliss, but the grace of ignorance is not one granted you. You are cursed rather, with the gift of intelligence. Not enough to spit on others but just more than the average so as not to be so easily lulled by doing what needs doing, focusing on at most three things, with a hobby on the side. To make it interesting, the gift was laced with poison.
The poison is called mediocrity.
What a lovely poison, it is. Meaningless yet satisfying like a one night stand. The orgasm is undeniably and truly mind-blowing. However, the afterglow is as warming as the dying embers in the depths of winter. It is bad enough to make you realize that it is not what you are looking for but good enough that you just keep coming for more, wanting to drink the oily water like a human dying of thirst.
It is a sad thing to have been made to believe that your minimum is well more than what most of the others can call their best. It makes you stop trying. After all, if you had wanted to, you can always do better, a damn whole lot better. Though, it becomes unnecessary. Your worst remains better than the rest.
Sure you meet others along the way who are equals or those who are superior to you. You know that when you meet them. It is an uncanny ability given to people who have been cursed by the same intelligence. You are able to measure the worth of others. You see them and you tell yourself, how you could do the same if you wanted to but the poison lingers in your body and you just want to have one last taste before kicking the habit. Then you're back to the rock bottom, catatonic like the crack addict that you have become.
After sometime of crawling in the shit, you get an epiphany, a realization. You become reborn like the phoenix, finding new resolve to start over, get things in order. Hell, you even find yourself a god and all things are nothing when you have your god with you.
You begin to get up and walk up straight. Always aiming higher, always doing better, then just like most mountain climbs, the trail begins to plateau. You just walk on and on and on, and you get no higher. Tired, you take a seat on a rock to regain some strength before proceeding.
You dust off your clothes and feel something in your breast pocket. Something you thought you left behind but which somehow, some subconscious stray thought had kept that item tucked in your pocket, that small vial of sweet, poisonous mediocrity.
You are foolish to think that you have broken free. You thought that you have cut the strings and are no longer humming another's tune, are singing another's song, are reciting dialog from some hackneyed playwright's script. Yet here you are, mouthing the oft-spoken words, singing off-key and droning a tune you could not keep out of your head.
Ignorance is indeed bliss, but the grace of ignorance is not one granted you. You are cursed rather, with the gift of intelligence. Not enough to spit on others but just more than the average so as not to be so easily lulled by doing what needs doing, focusing on at most three things, with a hobby on the side. To make it interesting, the gift was laced with poison.
The poison is called mediocrity.
What a lovely poison, it is. Meaningless yet satisfying like a one night stand. The orgasm is undeniably and truly mind-blowing. However, the afterglow is as warming as the dying embers in the depths of winter. It is bad enough to make you realize that it is not what you are looking for but good enough that you just keep coming for more, wanting to drink the oily water like a human dying of thirst.
It is a sad thing to have been made to believe that your minimum is well more than what most of the others can call their best. It makes you stop trying. After all, if you had wanted to, you can always do better, a damn whole lot better. Though, it becomes unnecessary. Your worst remains better than the rest.
Sure you meet others along the way who are equals or those who are superior to you. You know that when you meet them. It is an uncanny ability given to people who have been cursed by the same intelligence. You are able to measure the worth of others. You see them and you tell yourself, how you could do the same if you wanted to but the poison lingers in your body and you just want to have one last taste before kicking the habit. Then you're back to the rock bottom, catatonic like the crack addict that you have become.
After sometime of crawling in the shit, you get an epiphany, a realization. You become reborn like the phoenix, finding new resolve to start over, get things in order. Hell, you even find yourself a god and all things are nothing when you have your god with you.
You begin to get up and walk up straight. Always aiming higher, always doing better, then just like most mountain climbs, the trail begins to plateau. You just walk on and on and on, and you get no higher. Tired, you take a seat on a rock to regain some strength before proceeding.
You dust off your clothes and feel something in your breast pocket. Something you thought you left behind but which somehow, some subconscious stray thought had kept that item tucked in your pocket, that small vial of sweet, poisonous mediocrity.
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