Introduction

I have a non-addictive personality such as so that I never order the same cocktail twice, never allowed my pastimes for cigarettes get in the way of my healthy practices, can’t figure out whether I’m a coffee drinker (or not) and viscerally recognize my travels as each point towards growth, not luxury. And, even though some nights seem to feel more in the way of decadence, desire, and vice, it’s important to remember how everything can be moderated when lightly observed. ( I do wonder if it ever will come to a point that something in life will track me down breaking me down and out, and blow up my defense system leaving me irrevocably submissive to the lush lands and exotic men. ) But, for now, I am happy to say I lack promiscuity, in the proverbial sense.
Gambling, sex, potato chips, Gucci, teddy bears, cocaine, head, cigarettes, love, shoes, alcohol… all compiled and categorized into a little treasure box I call, “UNEXPLORED TERRITORY.” On the flip side of materialism, I have encountered potential suitors, and recreational drug use practices that stirred a little devilish desire inside. Take for instance, this one guy started a fire between my legs every time I saw him, and I’ll never forget the first time he walked into the room and I looked into his eyes. I thought to myself, “Oh, fuck.” (literally and figuratively) After driving myself to his house every night afterwards, slipping into his bed past midnight, and leaving his room before daybreak, I found that my twilight adventures simulated scenarios of addiction. As if, I were sneaking into a dark alleyway for a heroine fix. Especially, the night I woke up to him pounding a skinny chickie with pink hair and a polka dotted bikini… right next to me, in the same bed as me. And thus, I am thwarted back to the beginning of my escapades and thrown back into the land of Curiosity. Because now, not only am I heartbroken but I am also deprived of some of the thrill I had been waiting to satiate. Not only did the fucker not invite me, but he gave my pleasure away to a stupid girl that he would never see again. As a result, I attempted smoking weed everyday thereafter, and couldn’t even spark a rise out of whatever part in my brain redirects particular present and/or absent addictions. I wanted to get off of whatever simulated intravenous high he had me on, and swap it for something more productive. I vowed not to be one of those girls that lets that burning desire take over her life, making decisions with her irrational sensations instead of her brain. Regardless, physical attention is addicting and any human being that tells you it’s not is lying to themselves.
I use the term “addiction” loosely, in the sense that I sought the ultimate undeniable passion. Addiction, in the terms of sin and vice, is kind of idiotic to me. To be addicted to materialistic pleasures seems incredibly flat. It’s not about the rush you get from betting $10,000, or snorting a line of cocaine and jumping off the roof. These are passé fits of addiction, that are wimpy and short lived. I’m talking about the burning feeling when you feel love all over and inside, and it feels strong and unconditional. It can be the idea of love or of embrace, of the high or the escape, of the rush or the run, of the ritual or the routine…whatever keeps you coming back for more. Writing about this makes it feel like it’s more obtainable, even though I know the addiction I have and what I’m seeking to fill has been an impossible journey for just about my whole life now.
Which brings me to the point of my journey. (Note: This is a different type of journey. Not one of new faces and new places, but rather a journey of vision, thoughts, and manifestations.) My traveling has been put on hold but that doesn’t mean my perspectives won’t time travel in and out of space providing the highest peaks of a literary rollercoaster ride ever written.