Relieving Bowels at the Check Post of Thought

There are times. And there are other times. Relaxed. At ease. When the mind meanders through the landscape of interweaving thoughts and memories. Like the good times. Times under the shining sun. Basking in the warmth of a very intimate cocoon of thoughts. It’s here when the images, sometimes crystal clear, sometimes blurred by time like an old photograph left in a textbook, invoke a childish interplay of hormones that result in the functioning of seventeen muscles on the face that breaks into an unconscious smile.

Then there are sensations that creep, like a thief out of the shadows, sudden and real. Like the freefall strung by a bungee or the follicular arousal of goose bumps. It’s a simulation of reality as you’ve known it before, even though you can’t quite place when on your timeline of existence.

It is in such moments that cousin grief calls on you, an unwelcome guest hard to kick out. Left with little choice you usher him in. Melancholy, grief’s illegitimate offspring, makes the visit bearable. Like a side dish that makes a rubbery tough Roti palatable enough to shove down your throat till it lands inevitably into the crevasses of your inner belly, accomplished and forgotten.

An effective medicine, not by prescription, but like a home remedy, is booze. An excuse to let yourself loose and wallow in a stagnant pool of manufactured misery. Nurturing the wounds nourished by time, you begin to let slip. Until you let go of the kinks that had seamlessly knotted your minds, only getting tighter by your efforts to undo. So you grease it with booze till it decides to undo itself. And you pass out weary by effort of supporting a massless weight. Akin to Atlas, who shrugs the best he can in acknowledgement of your burden, and in envy of your impending reprieve.

And you wake up with a start. And scrutinize the needles of your wristwatch as you wonder. What was it that engulfed your time? To what platform of existence were you transported? Your wristwatch shouts above the din of another session of philosophical meandering and you’re jolted back in to a state of newfound activity, hurriedly procrastinating your mind marathon for another day, another time.

You’re however left with an easy feeling in the attic of your brain. Like you’ve relieved your bowels at the check post of thought.