In Search of Unconsciousness

I opted not to read the flippant piece today; it was a miserable excuse for writing. So, I replaced it with another miserable excuse for writing. At least the replacement was fiction. I’m disappointed in myself. Why can’t I produce something of which I can be even modestly proud? It’s not that my standards are high. It’s that my abilities are plummeting to earth, as if I’d jumped from an airplane. That’s an ugly reality.

Today is my 66th birthday. And it feels no different than yesterday and, I dare say, it probably doesn’t feel any different from tomorrow. Just another day of decay.

My mood today has rushed toward the curb, attempting to smash itself against the gutter. I’ve kept away from street’s edge, but only barely. If I can finish a couple of strong pours of tequila, I might be able to go to sleep this evening without encircling my neck with an old necktie. No, I will be able to avoid doing it; I’m in no immediate danger of strangling myself just yet. As long as I can get to sleep and avoid dreams, I will be as fine as fine can be. I just don’t want any more of this damn consciousness until sometime tomorrow. Consciousness tends to be accompanied by sharpness and angles; stuff that makes the brain unhappy to be in the general proximity of awareness. Alcohol is a depressant, I think. At least it works that way when I need hours and hours and hours of unprescribed pain killer. I wonder whether doctors feel strongly about the dangers or, conversely, the values, of alcohol? I’ve never engaged any of them in conversations about it.

It’s just slightly after nine in the evening. That’s late enough, in my book, to try to crash out of consciousness and into a temporary state of suppression. I’ll work on that soon.

Normally, I don’t mind dreams. Tonight, I’d rather not have them. Instead, I just want rest; uninterrupted rest. Eight or ten hours of freedom from the troubling considerations of life on this planet will be most welcome. Tomorrow, I’ll be willing to face it all again. But for tonight, I’d rather just relax and pretend the world doesn’t have any plans to dash my hopes.

About John Swinburn

"Love not what you are but what you may become."― Miguel de Cervantes
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