Seems like I have to always be living in/and pursuiting. There is never going to be an end.
What is to be must be. Isn’t it.
I’m like a capricious cat, playing with my preys. Shouldn’t be too easy to die, shouldn’t be too easy to run. Better to last for a while, but just for a while. Lasting too long makes it a boring/unchallenging prey, which vexes this insatiable cat.
I’m also turning to a slave of dopamine, but aren’t we all slaves of dopamine. But I can’t resist it. It’s my fuel.
Fun is free.
The moon and the wind are free.
Leaves and moonlight care nothing. Well, they could not.
“Chasing the leaves that run ahead,” chasing the cigarette fume, chasing the incense smoke, chasing the curtain dust, chasing the parting sunset.
Those existences are poetic. Chasing them is apparently poetic, too. It’s also poetic to have the mood and condition to chase them. But is chasing always beautiful? How do we count the time? No it’s not the time, the weight dopamine should be added.
Dopamine * duration. That’s the mesurement to use.
Of course the sources of dopamine are changeable. But as dopamine is a bloody addictive matter itself, the change of source is hardly voluntary. And this is where I can’t help myself at the moment.
What do I lack really?
A playable mouse. That likes doses of dopamine to me, for me to get high.
Getting high.
How beautiful.
There’re so many ways to get high.
Each one of them is of course addictive.
It makes the motivation of repetitive / relapsed behavior, after all.
When it gets you high hard, it’ll get you down hard. When it takes you to the sky, you’ll fall like the mission-completed rocket from the satellite.
Would you like to be the satellite then.
No. It roams round and round, on the same orbit, all along its longevity, then it floats, just floats, as trash.
But rockets rises beautifully, falls tragically. Like a hero. Majestical.