Indiscretions and Indifferences of Withdrawal (Confessions of a caffeine addict in rehab)Part I

First week:

Why take subterfuge in sanity when you know you are extraordinaire and if the rest label it as some kind of an anomaly you need not care.

Now, I am aware of my bodies ability to adapt to the barrels of coffee that I would glut myself with indulgently as I would go through the hum drum of my life. What I was not aware of was the tendency of my body to adapt to caffeine as an endocrine secretion rather than an artificial substrate that tampers to a degree with the metabolism and hyper functioning of it.
 Caffeine metabolism and the adversities associated with it I would neglect because in philosophy I am more of a fatalist and a cynic when it comes to prophesying . The school of thought that gives no thought to the criteria lethal existence because death is inevitable or as the less informed commoners would spell it out as YOLO.

Bah!!

So if the thought of the  impending doom being accelerated was not a concern ,what was it?  One may question.Well, you could say it was a very Rise of the Dark Knight situation where in the spirit of the human soul to survive in the face of adversity struck and struck me hard.

I never thought it was a confession to make and forget me Father but I have not sinned in having a spoonful of heavens delightful brown earthy fruit in my cup.Only if I am to be accused of something then let it be the unending need for the holy spirit that pours from filter kettles into my mouth wide open.Aah, the sin of gluttony...umm ..no, lust perhaps.

I was made to realize by none other than the ghost of my present that I being one of these people who is a fatalist in philosophy but a survivalist in action is challenging her own survival by being a heavily dependent piece of machinery that would die the day it's fuel would cease to be. Worse would die if stranded on an island(the ghost of my presents is brilliant at throwing at me convincing logical arguments especially when they cater to the cynic in me)Truth be told after having watched Cast Away at the age of five ,it has been one of my most dreaded nightmares.I realized that bringing up a coffee plantation with salt water to irrigate the fields in the sand did not seem like a viable solution and the osmosis of sea water on such a large scale is well impractical.

So, what choice do I have? I am extraordinaire in my capability to absorb caffeine as my own but I am in all my capacity bound by the human restriction of not being able to produce it through hormonal secretion induced or natural.

Hence the ghost of my present talked into me sense. The worse part about interacting with the ghost of my present was the fact that it made its argument inscrutable by denying me the much needed cup of coffee while it talked to me. That's when I knew the conclusion was watertight. I had to quit otherwise the little voices in my head would die.

In the first week of my abstinence, I feel dead, I feel like I am the ghost of my past. I feel hungry all the time, I have fallen sick and feel drowsy and feeble and fragile and bleak.I walk through the streets avoiding the sight of cafes and anything close to the reminder of my elixir turned poison.
The lesson to be taken from the indiscretions and the feigned indifference is:

If I can do it, so can you.For updates on the same, keep reading.

Circadian Relapses and their subtle hints.

Time will collapse in its eternity
forever will lament the time gone by,
and the sting that the time weeps on often
is the sting of each instance as it softly dies.

It relapses in its kill, the time we had,
the people we had , even the air we breath,
in a cycle it changes to poisoned wreath
of the binding clause and if we choose to keep,
trapped in our lungs, trapped in our hearts.
warping and deformed, they die, perhaps slowly,
they die for granted and they will die as unholy

Causing slow torturous pain and little drops of blood,
why we fear not the melting ,we fear only the flood?

Who will tell your story?

I wished for forgetfulness not a long time back.
I wish for it still. That or the reassurance that someone will tell my story as I would capturing details instance by instance, capturing details version by version. From the eye of a beholder and the eye of a critique, from the fond recollection of a friend and perhaps the fiery tongue of a foe that lashes its venom.A lover's passion , an admirer's wistfulness, a stranger's bewilderment and an acquaintance's misgivings .

What to say of multitudes? I can not quite remember which role have  played to perfection.
What is to remember?
Who will tell your story?

The Vanishing Act II

It is not an abrasion of  the chaffed skin over the fresh wounds but the sudden merging of cicatrices with the flesh of my body. The healing gave way to such a rejuvenation that the scales of the past have been falling off. The tincture of time slowly wore of and the tourniquet was shed because a single stitch that was holding its ugly scar sunk in without a trace.

Even the bruises  that they left, the patchy discoloured skin has now blend in and feels like river bed silt bathed in the dawn. The light set in, the dark diminished from the rims of the incarnation that was once before.The soul rid of the self inflicted atonement and the guilt minuscule to null.
I know love again and am capable of it. I know the vitality of emotion and the flow of it through my veins and the will to spill them.

Another self is to die in this light and one wonders what all will die with it. It is the closure to a life disdained by its own wants and condemned by its needs.
Now he can disappear, the apparition he was , he flees . Today I set him free and with him my dark and my fears, my afflictions and infliction, my self righteous indignation and I let go for the first time in my life.

But well, for him it is just another vanishing act.His second one perhaps.

Not quite Mona Lisa.

but etched dark chocolate syrup should make this better art.