molecules. no, it's not the bogosian piece.
I've found my eyes to be most profoundly affected by stimulants, pupils immediately swelling and taking in a painful amount of light, nerves gently reflecting the presence of every errant particle in the surrounding air, the slight plastic dryness of my contact lenses magnified tenfold as I scan everything in my line of vision.
The Ritalin was like that, making every photon twice as resonant and my own external reaction just as fast; possessing such command over my vision after years and years of inhibition was almost distracting. It was so much different than caffeine, not as potent, burdened by extra elements to add taste or color and cautious, almost stealthy in its approach. When the pill wore off, I could tell right away, my hands sagged at the wheel and my vision immediately returned to its soft, lazy, wobbly blur, the one I'd grown so acquainted with as to consider it an old friend, my only accomplice on those drives down highways big and small to destinations of various loves.
Unwilling to re-enact my uncharacteristic lapse, I stick with caffeine this time around, soda, tea, coffee, more coffee. I brew it with newfound mania; recommended are three scoops, Greg puts in four, I choose six, knowing it will be bitter, but also that no one else will be able to reach the pot in time. I use the clear glass mug with the Boeing logo etched on the side, the side that faces me as I hold it in my right hand. The mug can accommodate half the pot, and I happily oblige. It takes twelve packets of sugar to cut the harsh, bitter, almost acidic coffee taste; I lose count at fourteen, methodically working my fingers, ripping them four at a time.
Even then, the liquid hurts as it rolls down my throat, and not because of the heat, although yes, the burn makes my flesh raw and blistered. The taste is the worst part, the part I hate the most, and I swallow it all in two, maybe three gulps just to get it over with, and there it sits, and there it moves through my body, carrying little messengers to little messengers whose collected messages make up the thoughts in my brain and more, even the impulses that direct my fingers to move over certain keys.
It's an amazing thing, what separates one molecule from the next, the arrangement of atoms and protons and neutrons and electrons and whatever it is that comprises all of that, which distinguishes one thing from another, and what's even more amazing is the fact that we're just guessing about most of it, that all of our knowledge on the subject is, by nature, subjective, that we are merely interpreting what we can perceive of the real world and inventing our own "real" world, one we can quantify and limit according to what makes us feel comfortable.
I say this because it occurs to me that the difference between a drop of what I pour down my throat and a drop that ekes its way from my eye, what spills into me and what spills from me, what energizes me and what signifies my energy is all-but spent, the difference between those two things is smaller than we can detect, but greater than we can imagine, or catalog, or ever truly grasp.
I'm not saying anything that hasn't already been said before, I know, but at times like this, I am reminded of how majestically insignificant I am, how great and terrible and huge and monstrous and miniscule and forgettable and simple I am, and maybe we all are, I can't really tell you, because all I know is me, and I'm even unsure about that.
I'm feeling awkward, as ever, frustrated and unfulfilled and empty.
I love you.
I've found my eyes to be most profoundly affected by stimulants, pupils immediately swelling and taking in a painful amount of light, nerves gently reflecting the presence of every errant particle in the surrounding air, the slight plastic dryness of my contact lenses magnified tenfold as I scan everything in my line of vision.
The Ritalin was like that, making every photon twice as resonant and my own external reaction just as fast; possessing such command over my vision after years and years of inhibition was almost distracting. It was so much different than caffeine, not as potent, burdened by extra elements to add taste or color and cautious, almost stealthy in its approach. When the pill wore off, I could tell right away, my hands sagged at the wheel and my vision immediately returned to its soft, lazy, wobbly blur, the one I'd grown so acquainted with as to consider it an old friend, my only accomplice on those drives down highways big and small to destinations of various loves.
Unwilling to re-enact my uncharacteristic lapse, I stick with caffeine this time around, soda, tea, coffee, more coffee. I brew it with newfound mania; recommended are three scoops, Greg puts in four, I choose six, knowing it will be bitter, but also that no one else will be able to reach the pot in time. I use the clear glass mug with the Boeing logo etched on the side, the side that faces me as I hold it in my right hand. The mug can accommodate half the pot, and I happily oblige. It takes twelve packets of sugar to cut the harsh, bitter, almost acidic coffee taste; I lose count at fourteen, methodically working my fingers, ripping them four at a time.
Even then, the liquid hurts as it rolls down my throat, and not because of the heat, although yes, the burn makes my flesh raw and blistered. The taste is the worst part, the part I hate the most, and I swallow it all in two, maybe three gulps just to get it over with, and there it sits, and there it moves through my body, carrying little messengers to little messengers whose collected messages make up the thoughts in my brain and more, even the impulses that direct my fingers to move over certain keys.
It's an amazing thing, what separates one molecule from the next, the arrangement of atoms and protons and neutrons and electrons and whatever it is that comprises all of that, which distinguishes one thing from another, and what's even more amazing is the fact that we're just guessing about most of it, that all of our knowledge on the subject is, by nature, subjective, that we are merely interpreting what we can perceive of the real world and inventing our own "real" world, one we can quantify and limit according to what makes us feel comfortable.
I say this because it occurs to me that the difference between a drop of what I pour down my throat and a drop that ekes its way from my eye, what spills into me and what spills from me, what energizes me and what signifies my energy is all-but spent, the difference between those two things is smaller than we can detect, but greater than we can imagine, or catalog, or ever truly grasp.
I'm not saying anything that hasn't already been said before, I know, but at times like this, I am reminded of how majestically insignificant I am, how great and terrible and huge and monstrous and miniscule and forgettable and simple I am, and maybe we all are, I can't really tell you, because all I know is me, and I'm even unsure about that.
I'm feeling awkward, as ever, frustrated and unfulfilled and empty.
I love you.
I'm out the door right now so I'll come back later to read your post, NO TIME!
I find the quality of my vision depends on how much attention I pay to it. Drawing and painting improve its clarity immensely.