For over a decade now, I have realized my decreasing contentment with reality. Like, I keep expecting existence to rally and ramp up to what I know it could be, but I only catch rare glimpses of it here and there.
Like that rainy day on Cape Cod when
we were dressed like Adam and Eve,
the rain misted around us,
pounding the green leaves into oblivion.
Our bare feet somehow never hit the twigs,
the sharp branches,
the enemies of flesh
as we peered through the cosmos;
within each drop of rain was the universe
and we were wrapped inside it all.
Moments like that are rare, but they exist. I guess I keep mulling over a specific question: Will life ever become a consistent string of them all, or will I have to settle for the fleeting flicks of them I see when traveling or when caught in the rain?
I know addiction numbs our senses like a ruthless tyrant, and I’m tired of letting him dictate my life.
Freedom from addiction is the beginning traces of reality starting to peer into your life. Or maybe you’re the one peering into it. Like the slow fingers of the sunrise descending from the horizon, I want reality to burst into my life like the blooming of the day.
Like they say, I’ve quit pornography 1,000 times…but this time it’s for real.
I want life to be like that bridge we stood on in Brasil, the sailboats clattered against one another behind us as we set up the self timer on the camera. Shouldn’t life always be this stunning array of moments strung together with opportunity waiting like Rio just beyond the curve of the earth?
I don’t know if life will ever increase in its ease or comfort, but I know it can increase in presence…rather, my presence in it. Reality can become more real, and this is what I’m fighting for. Because giving in to your addiction means numbing the bad things as well as the good. You can’t turn down the volume on the pain without turning down the volume on the joy.
One time I got dumped in college by a girl I was really into and I remember having this specific thought:
In a weird way, I’m happy for this pain. Because having something to ache over, to write about and to leak out of me like poetry, is better than having nothing happening and feeling numb.
Eventually I did return to my anesthesia of choice and numbed the pain. But no more. I want to sit in that pain; in the urges which well up in my chest and make me feel like, if I don’t act out, I will literally die. That’s the lie it tells you: It spins a web that promises “Just give in to me and I will make you feel better.” Such is the twisted nature of addiction.
I wasn’t thinking of numbing my life when I was biking through the rain in Chicago, high-fiving pedestrians and screaming at the top of my lungs. I also didn’t try to escape my own existence while running through a drained cranberry bog at midnight, just outside of Boston, with good, adventurous friends by my side.
It’s strange that we continually return to these things — not just porn, but video games, Netflix, or anything else that promises us adrenaline from the seat of our couch — despite a lifetime of hollow guarantees they’ve made us.
Can’t we see through them yet?
I think life can become greater than it is now. Perhaps greater isn’t the right word: Richer? Deeper?
I’m trying, alright?