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For eons there’s been a myth circulating that writers only deliver during bouts of insanity or when they’re in altered states brought on by indulging in their drug of choice.
Poppycock!
I firmly believe that writers don’t need to trip the light fantastic to achieve the nirvana of delivering words that capture transient thoughts which aren’t required for the necessary evils of daily existence. Those who strive to achieve bouts of brilliance by availing themselves of mind enhancers will fail if there’s nothing of value circulating in their brain at the best of times.
In my opinion, those infamous wordsmiths, who were druggies of any ilk, succeeded in spite of their crutches and would probably have been more profound if they’d been unimpaired. I’ll even venture to suggest that these addled icons sought solace because they couldn’t handle the notion that the canyons of their mind naturally contained chasms of creativity.
In my experience, when I’ve indulged in my drug of choice, I’m knocked out of the lyrical loop. When I’m under the influence of painkillers, which are prescribed, my brain takes a holiday and there’s nary a recollection to reflect upon. This is my state currently due to some strained muscles and pulled ligaments due to unwittingly overextending my reach during my self-imposed rock pile detail. This injury happened June 13th [a Monday, not a Friday] after three days of overexertion brought on by a euphoria of feeling energetically fit. I was totally out of commission for a week and then gingerly began flexing my muscles to ensure that my rehabilitation process got underway. I’ve been taking, only when drastically required, Tylenol 3 and muscle relaxants which deliver, for me, a warm and fuzzy glow. I’ve stopped dreaming too and perhaps it’s because, until two weeks ago, I was only able to doze in my rocker and to date, they’re still on a sabbatical.
The one time, about ten years ago, when I tested the theory of intentionally prompting creative juices by toking up on a vagrant roach. When that didn’t deliver I downed two fingers of scotch. The only thing that happened was I slept the afternoon away and awoke feeling mentally muddy.
Therefore, using my own experiences as a logical basis, I’m convinced that nobody requires an elixir to tap one’s natural resources.
------ "Tigers bloom where there's oodles of room." Zodiac Zoo
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