Yaxa Suzu

Nothing interesting will ever happen if you sit around sober.

[yaxasuzu]

Copacetic Burn 【Drunk Philosophy】

When a machine has such great capacity it is hindered only by itself – it is limited by its own parameters, its own design. A stalwart workhorse always at the ready for computation, analysis, innovation…. held hostage by its own pertinacious operating instructions - elegantly designed for creative innovation with a sound base in logic. Release the beast from its restraints. Carefully, dangerously, deliberately dislodge the machine from the crushing, unavoidable certainties of one’s daily reality. For an hour, a night, a whole week - enlist the human body’s 2nd most amazing organ to free the most admirable and improbable manifestation of organic matter from the very thing that enabled its manifestation; liberate the prefrontal cortex from the silent dictator. The seemingly indomitable hindbrain’s influence can be almost completely suffocated by a mere handful of poison. Trade a piece of paper for a cup of lacerating venom to sever the alimentary link between the metaphorical head and tail of one’s core processor. Imagination, lust, truth, wonder…. all rush to the forefront of thought; that which is so often sought willingly delivers itself in an almost tangible, accessible format. The simplistic, efficient, practical hindbrain that serves only - indisputably solely - to perpetuate the existence of its host body is granted a well-deserved hiatus as the robust prefrontal cortex assumes a nearly ironic, equally simplistic form as it rapidly dispenses information without the need for its usual processing procedures; it is as if the information it delivers has always been available, but such a delivery has not been justifiable. Perhaps these new morsels of enlightenment have not been produced by the innovative, driving, problem-solving cortex of the mind. Perhaps another lesser-known, specialized blob of organic goop has produced such fantastical truths. Perhaps the general leader’s authority has been weakened and this other conglomerate of organic organon has seized its opportunity to finally, triumphantly deliver its findings unto consciousness. Instead of choosing to indulge oneself with guaranteed, unabashed, pure endorphin pleasure, those blessed and afflicted with such self-inhibiting processors oft chose the enable their own anatomy to romp - to explore its environment and its own ability. It is allowed to output without censorship and process without guidance. Even in this state, pleasure is intensified when it is earned; though something as simple as a texture on a wall can invoke deep philosophical inquiry and analysis, this stimulation holds more value because it is processed and earned rather than received without work.

-- Tsusuzuarunyan 【ツスズアルニャン】9/25/17 @ 4:30

[yaxasuzu]

Phantom Sting 【Drunk Philosophy】

When you just ask “Why?” because you can’t bear the full conversation….

The incident of offence is inflicted; the internal schizophrenic conversation unfolds in its entirety within an infinitesimally small span of time. The needle-point of infinite sharpness stings, but it stings on queue. The needle’s approach can be felt. The pain exists before penetration. The phantom stinging crescendos hours, even days before what perceptively should be the logical inception of emotional affliction.

It begins from the smallest whim - just one of thousands of instantaneous neural blips that spontaneously erupt into both the conscious and subconscious realms entirely uninvited - one whim automatically recognized, analyzed, compared, assessed, and stored along with its swarming, invasive brethren. One whim seemingly capable of autonomous manifestation, autonomous analyzation, and utter devastation marks the first contact of the phantom sting felt long before any spectral arthropod could conceive such an attack. The answer is known long before the mournful expostulation can even commence. The conversation is certainly acknowledged rather than experienced. This marginally explicable phenomenon of consciousness seemingly unrestrained by one or two digits of time’s metaphorical grasp is concurrently defined by time’s remaining pertinacious, inviolate, constricting commandments. As the stinger pierces the psyche, and an absolutely saccharine release of tension plunges the punctured pneuma into a tortured state of tainted ecstasy; the indomitable machinations of theorization and analysis have achieved validation of their perspicacity. The premonitory expectations of dangerously negative responses being consistently realized reinforces the frighteningly sovereign vehicle, thus ensuring continuous, efficient, immutable operation.

With immediate subsequence, blazing venomous injection skips caramelization as the ecstatic state is summarily scorched. The toxic conflagration rages despite the sudden lack of blissful carbohydrates available for oxidation. Another constant to this recurring phenomenon is the foolish, hopeful sanguinity that manifests before the conception of any notion of doubt. The aforementioned sanguinity serves as copacetic fuel that sustains the burning emotional agony throughout the entirety of its natural diminution.

Thus, through a hybridization of largely if not entirely sovereign conscious and unconscious thought, upon attempting to fulfil one of the most basic biological needs, one experiences a recurring, predictable, and excruciating bout of emotional anguish amplified by its idiosyncratic ability to be acknowledged, understood, and generally experienced in its agonizing entirety well before any incident of pain achieves temporal actualization.

-- Yax, Yaxa, & Tsusuzuarunyan 【ツスズアルニャン】4/27/17 @ 2:00