Many lines inside us travel in different momentum, and there at the base of the neck stands the gatekeeper, and every gatekeeper is unrelated to the other. They come from a different time, sometimes ancient or even from a time we have not yet known. Each gatekeeper has a favourite author, politician, thus the things they deem permissible into the neuro-highway is vital to the way you absorb pain or pleasure.
Pain, is comparable to the coldest region in the world and its job is to lead an expedition to the Antarctica, and then leave an ugly mark on the less than virginal ice-land before trying to navigate their way out alive, if not they would be honoured in print but be forgotten soon.
Pleasure, is hard to talk about because pleasure could be a life-saving bowl of donated hot soup for the homeless but reduced to diluted flavoured liquid unfit to be eaten for the i-centric generation. Pleasure is listening to your favourite songs, having breakfast by yourself and the quiet sun hanging around like an old friend, and hearing the words 'I miss you today' from the person you are missing. Pleasure is ever changing and demanding. Sometimes, it turns greater than it should be by manipulating your state of gratification, and if the gatekeeper adheres to its hedonistic request, you are probably done for.
Who is your gatekeeper? No one knows for sure but there will always be a diaphanous form teasing you and tricking your reliable senses when you think you know who it is. An effectual way to die today is to try and locate the gatekeeper's neck, twist it and conquer its fortress, your fortress, so you may live again.
*PS. Cobain, (the one who nicknamed me Courtney with no similarities to begin with except for the sake of pop culture) - another induced failure to write something upbeat.
Love, Courtney
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