The caffeine buzz hits. My eyes crack open, the lids feeling as if they’ve been pried apart and shunted open with crowbars, a raw ache tinging the corners in protest. The neurochemical change is slow, hindered by weeks of abuse of the bean, but it assuredly happens. An irritation sets in- a repression of energy, a heightened speed in the cycle of thoughts that twist away like a small, vicious tempest- a state of things unique not to me, but ubiquitous to everybody but zen masters. The average human being, caught up in the omnipresent complexities of life in civilization, lives within sight of psychosis, the bubbling cauldron of small dread and silent fears, the FNORDs of our lives, so pervasive that, except under duress, we fail to truly notice its leering fangs and glinting, narrowed eyes that peer at us just outside the range of our vision.
The damned, terrible bean has twisted me and ravaged my words. I’m in the perfect mood for journalism.
