Helplessness was an understatement for the current predicament he found himself in. He also felt powerless, useless and reckless. The past forty eight hours had been a blur, with waves of objects, humans and trees intermingling with each other like couples, going in and out of his eye’s frame of reference, refusing to let his mind lie down, and take a moment of breath and step back to review his life, to introspect how he had found himself on this particular frame of mind, his entire existence geared towards stimulating his biochemical system through heavy doses, whilst consuming sweetened substances in one loop after another, to the point of abuse and ecstasy in equal measure, at the expense of work and the meaning of his life’s existence, sucking out his will to think by dulling all his senses.
He felt like he was functioning on auto pilot mode. That he couldn’t think.
As far as he was concerned, at this point in time, his days of abuse were over. For how long could be continue to nip the bud of talent that was always seemingly awaiting its moment of growth, for all these years? He was seriously concerned with himself. He couldn’t even understand himself. He wanted to shout, scream and let it all out, and he did, collapsing on his mattress like a rag doll without consciousness or intelligence, content to lie down and watch the world near by progress on to new things and responsibilities while he remained behind, glaring at the magnanimity of it all, being powered forward under the tutelage of the knowledge economy, to which he had outlived his usefulness, since his will no longer seemed to keep with up the image that he dreamt of himself to become, in the vestiges of his mind, never seeing the light of day, confined to abandonment, like he had been doing so for the past years, like a timid, good-hearted loser.
Starr had been right all along.
“You mental wreck. Don’t contact me ever again. Get yourself healed, lest you turn mad. You need a psychiatrist”, she had said before walking away from his life into the distant night, without an iota of care for the shared memories that had transpired between them for the past six months, a time of his life he would always cherish, because he had received love.
He felt a strong urge to run away to another city the moment his next pay check arrived, without telling anyone, and start afresh. He had googled his feelings. He wasn’t impressed by the quality of the information. His predicament was something deeper, residing on the same plane trajectory as sex, drugs and other pleasures, that wantonly seemed to be calling out to him, from inside his mind, enticing him, cajoling him to elevate his senses further, and run himself to the ground like a mad dog lusting for his bone.
That’s what he wanted to do. He wanted to do nothing, and just…stay there.
Live for what purpose? Good food and drink, at the best places ambience wise? Yes, totally. A life full of sex and drugs? Yes, totally. The best apparel that could be bought. enhancing his image and social status? Yes, totally. The best of the best? Yes, totally.
Then, he better wake the fuck up, shut out the part of his mind that wanted to do precisely nothing and start altering his mental states to focus on things by looking at them like technical problems. Dates? A technical problem. Work? A technical problem. Food? A technical problem. Clothes? A technical problem.
The above image breaks down the technical problem of dating into a few simple and repeatable steps that can be followed by anyone, anywhere, with slight alterations basis an individual’s personality type and choice.
He decided to implement this going forwards for his life.