I shouldn’t be doing this. I shouldn’t be ABLE to do this. It shouldn’t be so easy. It’s not my fault, it’s the noises echoing in the background. No, that’s not it, it’s the rock-hard rectangle underneath me. Or maybe the dryness. That’s it, it’s the aridness. Ok, maybe I’m nitpicking. Am I being a whiny little baby? Probably, yeah. But seriously, what else can I do? How can I fix this?! It should just come naturally. Everyone says it’s the easiest thing in the world! . . . I need to stop. I need to just find a way to stop everything and unwind into a state of quasi-nothingness. . .
At first, it’s actually kind of cool. Before the prolapse, there’s the rush. The body’s imperium is one thing, but the mental empowerment of knowing that you’re defying the laws of nature, it’s metamorphic. You thoroughly control every dimension of your almightiness. Rather than descend into bodily weakness, you do not, even for a second, doubt your invincibility. The high overtakes rational, convincing you that your human frame could crush the most gargantuan earthly object. But this feeling is not a violent one. Enthusiasm is at an all-time high. You want to dance, jump, shake, sing and flail around like a fish on Red Bull. Too much energy to possibly be channeled into anything other than a 3 a.m. workout.
Even if you overcome the stresses in order to savor this high, the body can only defy its nature for so long. Once the adrenaline wears off, overwhelming levels of fatigue kick in. Unless they don’t, and that’s when the vicious cycle begins to dictate, or rather ruin, your life. The body’s refusal to accept a circadian rhythm melts away at one’s very sanity, but the most illogical part about this unraveling is that the highest form of euphoria imaginable somehow exists smack dab in the middle of this deadly madness.