DoubleTrouble
Bluelighter
Thoughts race across my mind like shooting stars across the sky, each one commanding my attention for a moment only to be displaced and overshadowed by the next. Yet words still come difficult to me. How can I explain this?
I can’t. Mere questions, not overarching and wise resolutions are what I understand. Who am I? Am I free? What is freedom? Am I happy? That last one I like to think I know the answer to.
Then when, if ever, will I be happy? Will I realize it when it hits me? Or is happiness only a set of experiences that, in comparison to sorrow, shows some relative promise? If this is so, when can I accurately define happiness? I certainly am not ready for such a philosophical task yet, why, according to my country and my parents, I am not even intellectually capable enough to submit my eyes to the content in an “R” rated film, let alone try to ponder anything that’s worth a damn.
What’s worth a damn?
There are several pre-programmed instincts that exist in my brain which are begging to answer such a question. They tell me “love.” They tell me “truth.” They tell me “happiness.” Not that again! How shall I direct my life, I ask my instincts, based on such simple, embryonic desires that I apparently lack and yet cannot even define. Can I measure these things that are worth a damn?
My science teacher once told me that happiness is caused by a handful of chemical reactions in the brain. Are these chemicals what I want? Serotonin, dopamine, endorphins; are these what I want? An anti-drug pamphlet told me that MDMA triggers heaps of serotonin to be released. Is the happiness derived by MDMA legitimate? Am I merely cheating on my misery? Does that even matter? Is that breaking my instinctual desire for “truth”?
I love those chemicals. One time, a brain full of released dopamine told me how good life is, how similar us humans are, and how familiar my thoughts are to those of the rest of humanity. Another time, with serotonin running rampant upstairs, I decided that I loved everyone and that they all loved me back. Earlier today, some endorphins assured me it was okay just to relax and take it easy, that things are looking up.
I hate those chemicals. Once my brain reaches equilibrium, I correct myself on all of the silly revelations I allowed those chemical illusions to manifest for me. No, this is not the good life. No, love is not in your grasp, in fact, it seems practically unattainable. No, “relaxing” is not taking it easy. “You are wasting your hours,” my depleted chemical reservoirs now tell me, “You are bored.”
The sun once again rises in Minnesota, blinding the shooting stars from my view and illuminating my mind with a single overwhelming thought: welcome back, inert loneliness.
Alas, another day passes irrevocably; I must keep on keeping on.
I can’t. Mere questions, not overarching and wise resolutions are what I understand. Who am I? Am I free? What is freedom? Am I happy? That last one I like to think I know the answer to.
Then when, if ever, will I be happy? Will I realize it when it hits me? Or is happiness only a set of experiences that, in comparison to sorrow, shows some relative promise? If this is so, when can I accurately define happiness? I certainly am not ready for such a philosophical task yet, why, according to my country and my parents, I am not even intellectually capable enough to submit my eyes to the content in an “R” rated film, let alone try to ponder anything that’s worth a damn.
What’s worth a damn?
There are several pre-programmed instincts that exist in my brain which are begging to answer such a question. They tell me “love.” They tell me “truth.” They tell me “happiness.” Not that again! How shall I direct my life, I ask my instincts, based on such simple, embryonic desires that I apparently lack and yet cannot even define. Can I measure these things that are worth a damn?
My science teacher once told me that happiness is caused by a handful of chemical reactions in the brain. Are these chemicals what I want? Serotonin, dopamine, endorphins; are these what I want? An anti-drug pamphlet told me that MDMA triggers heaps of serotonin to be released. Is the happiness derived by MDMA legitimate? Am I merely cheating on my misery? Does that even matter? Is that breaking my instinctual desire for “truth”?
I love those chemicals. One time, a brain full of released dopamine told me how good life is, how similar us humans are, and how familiar my thoughts are to those of the rest of humanity. Another time, with serotonin running rampant upstairs, I decided that I loved everyone and that they all loved me back. Earlier today, some endorphins assured me it was okay just to relax and take it easy, that things are looking up.
I hate those chemicals. Once my brain reaches equilibrium, I correct myself on all of the silly revelations I allowed those chemical illusions to manifest for me. No, this is not the good life. No, love is not in your grasp, in fact, it seems practically unattainable. No, “relaxing” is not taking it easy. “You are wasting your hours,” my depleted chemical reservoirs now tell me, “You are bored.”
The sun once again rises in Minnesota, blinding the shooting stars from my view and illuminating my mind with a single overwhelming thought: welcome back, inert loneliness.
Alas, another day passes irrevocably; I must keep on keeping on.
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