29th Vhalar, 723
.
Whilst a mind may feel blurry, does also a stomach roil with inspiration...
Kotton didn't know what to do with himself. He believed he was trapped within a pre-determined physical manifestation, constrained to limitations that were unmatched even by a strong sense of will. He wished he could call to his ancestors, some cognitive metamorphosis before the current time- anything that could guarantee him some form of logical consciousness- something easily manipulated and devoid of common humanoid limitation.
He was fed up with patience. Waiting for the cooker to heat, waiting for the wick of the candles to ignite, waiting for that damn package to be delivered. He was trembling with an anticipation that could not be satiated apart from a halfhearted, "it will be here eventually". His spirit was too ecstatic, his energy too unruly to be sanctioned. It didn't take more than a moment before he became impossibly restless.
His spirit was too ecstatic, his energy high unable to be quelled. That being said, it didn’t take long before he became restless.
The same beat kept on drumming against the sides of his skull. Cacophonous cymbals repeatedly chimed behind his eardrums. He desired more- he needed more- a challenge, a sudden change that required spontaneous adaptation, anything to abate this monotonous existence he was living now. Going to the pub hadn't been the appropriate bandage necessary to treat the open wound on his heart. The long and mindful treks around the neighbourhood had offered minimal support to assuage his want for… something else; it was an emptiness he felt, and it penetrated deep within his heart with the eidolic claws of a beast. The atmosphere of imagination that had always been had suddenly rendered silent; there were no new offers of inspiration to hush nor placate his rambunctious mind. He needed something to control his rampant thoughts. He needed something to funnel the ideas that capitulated into an irradiating monster of utter chaos.
Kotton blinked in quick succession, a physical gesture meant only to recollect his emotions and organise his thoughts. But it had been a gesture of unfortunate nonchalance, giving no resolution as it had in the past. His ideas and hypotheses continued to rumble like thunder, throwing themselves without direction around and around his clouded brain. He hadn't even touched a tincture of ethanol, and still his mental capacity had quickly conducted a straight and narrow path to havoc. Depression sucked and boy did he know it.
Kotton closed his eyes and sucked in a gasp of air. He was not about to be bested by what he thought was a friend. His mind was supposed to be working with him, not against him. He channelled his treasonist deliberations into a back corner of his brain and proceeded to hunt down forms of sensibility no matter how small. He focused on his breath-work and eventually found a collective sense of regularity. For that he was thankful. He focused on the minor array of orderliness, his attention responding only to the conciliation of what had once been without structure. He counted to ten, and after each interval he resounded the count with a deep breath. He filled his lungs until they couldn't expand any further and upon having achieved this feat, he dispelled the air by way of enormous exhale.
Kotton hoped that his everyday experiences translated just as poetically into his writing as when he had witnessed them firsthand. He wanted his experience to be painted in prose, captured in a form of written word that flourished with delectable detail and upstanding narration. But sometimes his mind couldn’t bear to grip the anthology of his life for longer than few moments. He closed his eyes again, trying to knock the tangent from the evasive rabbit hole that tunnelled his vision. He needed to focus on his breathing. He needed to register a point of calm- something that always eluded him during times of tension and monumental overwhelm.
Kotton lifted his eyelids just a bit, giving his brain time to process the visual stimuli that were sure to bombard him. Once the coast was clear, he gradually surveyed his surroundings. He was in a building that had been capitulated by a mute blue. Accents of turquoise and robin's egg decorated the walls. There was an abysmally dark oak that attributed to the wooden floor under his footing. He racked his brain for his location, but came up empty-handed. Fear would have normally befallen him after realising he was irreversibly lost, but Kotton's mind was already flabbergasted. His sense of self-preservation lingered in the horizon, a notion to be dealt with during a time of future convenience, but his head throbbed, a myriad of other priorities that placed this predicament in the back of his mind. He had almost become indifferent to being lost. That’s how common this situation had occurred. His thoughts were fighting against one another for dominance. They were tripping over one another for a spot on the throne of recognition. And Kotton? Well, he was trying to untangle the mess in his head. The expenditure of his energy was required elsewhere.
Meditation had a strong influence on perspective and in order to regale sovereignty he had to surrendered his main focus on one thing in order to capture entire focus on everything. Meditation had helped him before. It had allowed him to be able to conjugate new strategies and unique points of view so as to remove himself from stress. It was essential for someone to be in the right state of mind in order to coherently assess their situation. And the slow breathing, the mental pictures he traced with his closed eyes, from body part to body part, tending to each and every detail he could- it was helping, but...
Kotton was still at a loss. He knew he was in a building with blue wallpaper and judging by the material under his feet, wooden flooring. Gods, had his addiction taken the reigns of his life with such ferocity so as to enlist him in the league of chronic misremembrance?
He shook his head. He had vowed to never reach such a delirious state of mind. He knew when he had had enough. He was the master of his body and he wouldn't dare overture his intrinsic discipline when it came to alcohol. But apparently gin, rum, whisky or tequila (maybe even vodka) had spread a very believable rumour and that rumour was that Kotton was unable to handle his drink. He had made friends with the wrong kind and because of this, he had been subjected to the repercussions of trusting those having a tendency to betray. He had been superseded by chemicals with the power to manipulate. He was never in control. He reliquished control so he wouldn't be in control. That's how drugs and alcohol worked. He could face palm himself so hard right now if he was able to worry less about where he was.
Kotton stifled a sob. He grabbed his face with his hands and tried to hid his tears and shame. He wasn't like this. He had control. He was in control. He didn't want his friends or his family to know that he had fallen so low. No one would be able to understand. His realm of depression and daily emotional discomfort would only be approached with advice he had already tried. He just wanted to relieve his pain- both the physical kind and the mental. He had never meant it to tumble out of control.
He propelled himself forward, upending his rear so that he stood tall, if not a bit wobbly. Amongst the blue wallpaper was a door. He faced it. From the ashes he found himself, the moon unintentionally amplifying his sorrow. The glow of the moon indirectly highlighting his failures offered Kotton some perspective. He continued for the door, acknowledging environmental details that entrusted him with impressions of familiarity. Yes, he had seen that vase before. Yes, this gravel path held footprints that looked remarkably similar to the soles of his own shoes. And this corner here? He had totally bumped his head hard here. All these misremembered details aided him in the direction of his house.
He floundered, knocking his body into a rickety fence. He tripped on an barricade of haphazardly placed barrels and faltered in stride past a few pedestrians. He was quite happy he couldn't hear their cries of displeasure. He was already drowning in self-induced embarrassment. Step after step after bobbing step- like a buoy unrestrained to a dock-
It wasn't until he had managed to closed the door of his home behind him that he shuddered a gratuitous gasp of air. He was safe. But his mind continued to feel theratened.
How could he have been so stupid? How could he have allowed himself to ingest so much poison? How had he condemned his mind so much so as to erase his sobriety, thereby creating a fabricated and disillusioned perspective? Was it all for the cessation of boredom? Of depression? His entire moral obligation had been corrupt and his steadfast belief in honesty and ingenuity had been irrevocably thrown into the same bin as the trash of last week.
Kotton threw himself onto his couch, crumpling into a feotal position. He didn’t want to be touched. He didn't want to be advised or comforted. He just wanted to be. He felt unapologetically useful and purposeless. His subconscious had refuted any and all reasonable action as to why he had gotten black out drunk. Kotton had even watched it all unfold. His eyes had glazed over, unprocessing and without an inkling of rebuttal. There was a reason things were proofread. There was a reason that logic was... a thing. And there was a reason boundaries were set.
There was purpose in the fact that the body could only purify so much toxin. Evidence suggested that too much of anything could have detrimental effects. But what could he do about it now? It had already happened. He had consumed too much, and alcohol, being a depressant, had simply latched onto his already negatively plagued psyche. His physical body was simply along for the ride. Maybe that’s why he had found himself sitting in a random ass building with blue wallpaper. Maybe that’s why it took every ounce of remaining sobriety to find his way back home.
He grasped for a couch cushion and clenched it vehemently against his stomach. He felt like a failure. There was just so much guilt... Would the immortals he worshipped look down upon his insubordination? Would anyone beside his own extreme need for perfection be wilted with disappointment at his egregious behaviour? He pressed his eyes as tightly closed as he could muster but somehow a tear still managed to escape. It didn't matter now; what had been done had been done. All that was left was the aftermath. And Kotton had already initiated the punishment.
"Pwease fowgive me, Piew and Pwe," he whispered. He lolled his head against the soft cushion of the couch. His lips met the velvety texture. "I didn’t do you justice and fow that I deepwy apowogise."
His eyes fluttered, the remaining effects of the alcohol making its final play against his energy. He smiled, unthinkingly, at the hilarity of what had just happened. Even if he was sad, his body had a way of supplying one last say of comedy.
Kotton gave his eyes their needed rest. Fortunately for him, his stomach wasn’t roiling with disgust at the volume of poison he had consumed, and his mind had quieted just enough for him to enter the land of a dreamless slumber.
But boy, would he feel this in the morning.
Kotton didn't know what to do with himself. He believed he was trapped within a pre-determined physical manifestation, constrained to limitations that were unmatched even by a strong sense of will. He wished he could call to his ancestors, some cognitive metamorphosis before the current time- anything that could guarantee him some form of logical consciousness- something easily manipulated and devoid of common humanoid limitation.
He was fed up with patience. Waiting for the cooker to heat, waiting for the wick of the candles to ignite, waiting for that damn package to be delivered. He was trembling with an anticipation that could not be satiated apart from a halfhearted, "it will be here eventually". His spirit was too ecstatic, his energy too unruly to be sanctioned. It didn't take more than a moment before he became impossibly restless.
His spirit was too ecstatic, his energy high unable to be quelled. That being said, it didn’t take long before he became restless.
The same beat kept on drumming against the sides of his skull. Cacophonous cymbals repeatedly chimed behind his eardrums. He desired more- he needed more- a challenge, a sudden change that required spontaneous adaptation, anything to abate this monotonous existence he was living now. Going to the pub hadn't been the appropriate bandage necessary to treat the open wound on his heart. The long and mindful treks around the neighbourhood had offered minimal support to assuage his want for… something else; it was an emptiness he felt, and it penetrated deep within his heart with the eidolic claws of a beast. The atmosphere of imagination that had always been had suddenly rendered silent; there were no new offers of inspiration to hush nor placate his rambunctious mind. He needed something to control his rampant thoughts. He needed something to funnel the ideas that capitulated into an irradiating monster of utter chaos.
Kotton blinked in quick succession, a physical gesture meant only to recollect his emotions and organise his thoughts. But it had been a gesture of unfortunate nonchalance, giving no resolution as it had in the past. His ideas and hypotheses continued to rumble like thunder, throwing themselves without direction around and around his clouded brain. He hadn't even touched a tincture of ethanol, and still his mental capacity had quickly conducted a straight and narrow path to havoc. Depression sucked and boy did he know it.
Kotton closed his eyes and sucked in a gasp of air. He was not about to be bested by what he thought was a friend. His mind was supposed to be working with him, not against him. He channelled his treasonist deliberations into a back corner of his brain and proceeded to hunt down forms of sensibility no matter how small. He focused on his breath-work and eventually found a collective sense of regularity. For that he was thankful. He focused on the minor array of orderliness, his attention responding only to the conciliation of what had once been without structure. He counted to ten, and after each interval he resounded the count with a deep breath. He filled his lungs until they couldn't expand any further and upon having achieved this feat, he dispelled the air by way of enormous exhale.
Kotton hoped that his everyday experiences translated just as poetically into his writing as when he had witnessed them firsthand. He wanted his experience to be painted in prose, captured in a form of written word that flourished with delectable detail and upstanding narration. But sometimes his mind couldn’t bear to grip the anthology of his life for longer than few moments. He closed his eyes again, trying to knock the tangent from the evasive rabbit hole that tunnelled his vision. He needed to focus on his breathing. He needed to register a point of calm- something that always eluded him during times of tension and monumental overwhelm.
Kotton lifted his eyelids just a bit, giving his brain time to process the visual stimuli that were sure to bombard him. Once the coast was clear, he gradually surveyed his surroundings. He was in a building that had been capitulated by a mute blue. Accents of turquoise and robin's egg decorated the walls. There was an abysmally dark oak that attributed to the wooden floor under his footing. He racked his brain for his location, but came up empty-handed. Fear would have normally befallen him after realising he was irreversibly lost, but Kotton's mind was already flabbergasted. His sense of self-preservation lingered in the horizon, a notion to be dealt with during a time of future convenience, but his head throbbed, a myriad of other priorities that placed this predicament in the back of his mind. He had almost become indifferent to being lost. That’s how common this situation had occurred. His thoughts were fighting against one another for dominance. They were tripping over one another for a spot on the throne of recognition. And Kotton? Well, he was trying to untangle the mess in his head. The expenditure of his energy was required elsewhere.
Meditation had a strong influence on perspective and in order to regale sovereignty he had to surrendered his main focus on one thing in order to capture entire focus on everything. Meditation had helped him before. It had allowed him to be able to conjugate new strategies and unique points of view so as to remove himself from stress. It was essential for someone to be in the right state of mind in order to coherently assess their situation. And the slow breathing, the mental pictures he traced with his closed eyes, from body part to body part, tending to each and every detail he could- it was helping, but...
Kotton was still at a loss. He knew he was in a building with blue wallpaper and judging by the material under his feet, wooden flooring. Gods, had his addiction taken the reigns of his life with such ferocity so as to enlist him in the league of chronic misremembrance?
He shook his head. He had vowed to never reach such a delirious state of mind. He knew when he had had enough. He was the master of his body and he wouldn't dare overture his intrinsic discipline when it came to alcohol. But apparently gin, rum, whisky or tequila (maybe even vodka) had spread a very believable rumour and that rumour was that Kotton was unable to handle his drink. He had made friends with the wrong kind and because of this, he had been subjected to the repercussions of trusting those having a tendency to betray. He had been superseded by chemicals with the power to manipulate. He was never in control. He reliquished control so he wouldn't be in control. That's how drugs and alcohol worked. He could face palm himself so hard right now if he was able to worry less about where he was.
Kotton stifled a sob. He grabbed his face with his hands and tried to hid his tears and shame. He wasn't like this. He had control. He was in control. He didn't want his friends or his family to know that he had fallen so low. No one would be able to understand. His realm of depression and daily emotional discomfort would only be approached with advice he had already tried. He just wanted to relieve his pain- both the physical kind and the mental. He had never meant it to tumble out of control.
He propelled himself forward, upending his rear so that he stood tall, if not a bit wobbly. Amongst the blue wallpaper was a door. He faced it. From the ashes he found himself, the moon unintentionally amplifying his sorrow. The glow of the moon indirectly highlighting his failures offered Kotton some perspective. He continued for the door, acknowledging environmental details that entrusted him with impressions of familiarity. Yes, he had seen that vase before. Yes, this gravel path held footprints that looked remarkably similar to the soles of his own shoes. And this corner here? He had totally bumped his head hard here. All these misremembered details aided him in the direction of his house.
He floundered, knocking his body into a rickety fence. He tripped on an barricade of haphazardly placed barrels and faltered in stride past a few pedestrians. He was quite happy he couldn't hear their cries of displeasure. He was already drowning in self-induced embarrassment. Step after step after bobbing step- like a buoy unrestrained to a dock-
It wasn't until he had managed to closed the door of his home behind him that he shuddered a gratuitous gasp of air. He was safe. But his mind continued to feel theratened.
How could he have been so stupid? How could he have allowed himself to ingest so much poison? How had he condemned his mind so much so as to erase his sobriety, thereby creating a fabricated and disillusioned perspective? Was it all for the cessation of boredom? Of depression? His entire moral obligation had been corrupt and his steadfast belief in honesty and ingenuity had been irrevocably thrown into the same bin as the trash of last week.
Kotton threw himself onto his couch, crumpling into a feotal position. He didn’t want to be touched. He didn't want to be advised or comforted. He just wanted to be. He felt unapologetically useful and purposeless. His subconscious had refuted any and all reasonable action as to why he had gotten black out drunk. Kotton had even watched it all unfold. His eyes had glazed over, unprocessing and without an inkling of rebuttal. There was a reason things were proofread. There was a reason that logic was... a thing. And there was a reason boundaries were set.
There was purpose in the fact that the body could only purify so much toxin. Evidence suggested that too much of anything could have detrimental effects. But what could he do about it now? It had already happened. He had consumed too much, and alcohol, being a depressant, had simply latched onto his already negatively plagued psyche. His physical body was simply along for the ride. Maybe that’s why he had found himself sitting in a random ass building with blue wallpaper. Maybe that’s why it took every ounce of remaining sobriety to find his way back home.
He grasped for a couch cushion and clenched it vehemently against his stomach. He felt like a failure. There was just so much guilt... Would the immortals he worshipped look down upon his insubordination? Would anyone beside his own extreme need for perfection be wilted with disappointment at his egregious behaviour? He pressed his eyes as tightly closed as he could muster but somehow a tear still managed to escape. It didn't matter now; what had been done had been done. All that was left was the aftermath. And Kotton had already initiated the punishment.
"Pwease fowgive me, Piew and Pwe," he whispered. He lolled his head against the soft cushion of the couch. His lips met the velvety texture. "I didn’t do you justice and fow that I deepwy apowogise."
His eyes fluttered, the remaining effects of the alcohol making its final play against his energy. He smiled, unthinkingly, at the hilarity of what had just happened. Even if he was sad, his body had a way of supplying one last say of comedy.
Kotton gave his eyes their needed rest. Fortunately for him, his stomach wasn’t roiling with disgust at the volume of poison he had consumed, and his mind had quieted just enough for him to enter the land of a dreamless slumber.
But boy, would he feel this in the morning.
