Wednesday, July 27, 2005

Maybe I'm the only psycho who feels this way, but it's more interesting to explore my capacity for pain than to explore my capacity for pleasure.

For me, good sensations have an upper limit. I've felt extreme pleasure before - pleasure so intense, that nothing could possibly improve it. And I loved every second of it. But never once during that moment did I ask myself, "Can I handle this?" There was no test of mettle. And once the pleasure subsided, it was a long fall down to baseline. Normal didn't seem quite so good any more. All in all, the experience left me somewhat deflated.

I have yet to find a limit to how much pain I can experience. No matter how much I'm hurting, the level of pain can always be increased. Like abysmal ocean trench. No one has seen the bottom and returned. I want to see how far I can dive before the pressure makes me turn back. Joyfully, I tattoo the most tender sections of my flesh, shove metal through the cartilagenous protrusions of my face, swallow chile peppers, lift things that weigh more than I do, hold my breath until i pass out, walk barefoot on gravel, hang up-side down, spin in office chairs, push on my bruises, pick my scabs, and squeeze my paper cuts all in the name of curiousity.

"Can I handle it?" I wonder, as the tattoo gun drags over my solar plexus. I can. I almost can't, but I can. I do. I love being able to say that, remembering the pain and knowing that I made it through on my own strength. And when it's over, baseline feels better than ever. How I love the sweetness of contrast!

Note: to those who feel it is their Christian (or heathen) duty to protect me, I'm not talking about self-injurous activities. I'm talking about good old fashioned, "that smarts," rub-a-little-dirt-in-it discomfort. Sensation seeking, not self-mutilation. I'm not THAT crazy.

shiny objects