A Slow Rise From Self-Preservation – Mad Chaos: September 26, 2004

Spells In The Factory Memoir

As a break from the convoluted convention of chalkboards, dozens of open resource windows and hours of intense preemptive service, plain shall be this day.  The only preface is that the circus of research, insomnia, and marathon memoir reached fever pitch, and the only reason I have coped is for the daily prescription of caffeine undertaken in full consciousness of its addiction.  I know caffeine is a vice but its incentive to endure overwork and excessive stress is what rescues me from the usual depressive syndromes, which have ceased for over a week.

Carbonated functional drinks are vials of addictive poison whose mental stimulation promotes adverse insomnia and other ado I have to live with.  I would have to conduct further research, but the addictive poison has probably saved me from mental burnout borne from seventeen-hour sedentaryisms administered in this factory memoir.

Predictable behavior dictates that mental resilience should have collapsed to force me into a depressive reclusion syndrome by now, but pointers indicate that caffeine has allowed me to soar above the imposition of problems, with the usual resolve for lifestyle resolutions replaced with sheer preoccupation of exacerbated spells in the factory memoir.

A Hyperbaric Chamber Of Stress

I believe a hyperbaric chamber scenario can explain the fears I have to resurface too quickly.  I have sunk for over seven years now deeper and deeper into depths where the pounds per square inch of pressure forced against my body are tremendous.  External pressures that make it hard to breathe have squeezed.  So, when I do breathe in an ocean so deep, it is for a gasp of memoir here or a compulsive escapism there.

I am so deep in the lurks of the memoir, reservoir and research seas, and the reason I have been so tenacious for tentative measures is because I see how jeopardized I am.  Slow rise is the only means to extenuate the pressures.  If I have a too-rapid ascent via a recession to live a normal roller coaster of disappointed life, the sudden drop in external pressure with its acute formation of nitrogen bubbles can be injurious.  

If I remain submerged in this squeeze of pressure there is a chance my desperate gasps of work in the memoir will lead to flotation to the murk of reservoir levels, and eventual flotation back to the surface.  While I may have to endure hallucinations from insomnia and addictive poisons like guarana in my ventilation, it is less hazardous than the sickness of the bends.  

For this reason, carevolupism is a form of self-preservation, in place while the lurks of the memoir, reservoir and research seas are overcome.  I will administer caffeine as an incentive to endure the pressures and excessive stress, which for some reason I am insensible to now.  I will restore a balance with unconditional surrender to seventeen-hour sedentaryism, ubiquitous insomnia and irritable, disturbed sleeps, because I am unadjusted for the rigors of the easier life above.  

I will one day be able to scuba dive and look at the superficial yet picturesque reefs, but I am unprepared for the sickness of a rapid rise, and more prepared for the crucibles I was born to overcome.

It may seem like the decisions I make are irrational, where even my subconscious dreams mimic the same addictions and delusions of real life, but the brink of death forces people into preservational parameters, and those for me are of minimized interaction.  

I cannot think of colorful fish or predators on the stable rise back up to personal welfare.  I may lash out on occasion in fretful panic in rapid rises, like in the case of compulsive escapisms, but I soon see these are more injurious.  So, like liquid oxygen tonic in the rebreather, I maintain an addictive rewards scheme.

A Slow Rise From Self-Preservation

A near-death experience renders a person unable to think on basic functions.  One can only think about what keeps them alive.  So, in this compressed world, where every breath down here would be like six hundred liters of gas at the surface, a person conserves, and then makes incremental moves to survive.  Slow rise is the only means to extenuate the pressures.  

When you are submerged in less than three atmospheres, and when you are forced to inhale liquid oxygen, and when you are forced to do only what will facilitate your rescue, life flashes before your eyes.  In this case, the anesthetized calm and helplessness forces me to record all these flashes in my memoir.  

I even dream I write in my memoir and memorize the whole paragraph, until I awake and its genius disappears.  I have to be as conservative as possible.  This is a controversial move, but the mere fact I allow permission for submission to this life of insensible self-preservation is a realization I needed.  

I accept this is a crisis, but the tailored rewards scheme and preservational parameters are crucial to wean me back to the surface, perhaps in a month or perhaps in three.  If I fail, I will need a hyperbaric chamber for months or years to treat aeroembolism.  The sickness of the bends may make me spastic or I may recover, and reminisce on the waters I wish to scuba dive in.  

I am happy to give myself permission dedicated to abstinence, save for a life of insensible self-preservation.  I hope I recover, in a month or in three months, but with no shocks to the system, which can cause calamitous depression.

Marathon Memoir Reservoir Session

The day concerned has been plain but also complicated.  I finished up in the memoir by 7:15am after nineteen hours, from précis, to chalkboard, to indentation.  I then did sleep, but even the carbonated taurine drink proved a problem.  

I had immense insomnia.  For three hours all I could do was lie in uncomfortable consciousness.  I heard neighborhood noises outside my bedroom window.  Its disturbance coupled with a need to wake up and watch a rugby league semifinal made me unable to relax.

A Family Backyard Barbecue

I awoke at 10:30am with eye sockets sucked into my skull.  I was thankful mum had a barbecue prepared outside.  

I was on the way to the bathroom when she called, “There is a salad and meats if you would like some.”

So I rinsed a plate from my bedroom and welcomed her familial munificence.

I was in such a dilapidated state of insomnia as I thanked mum and walked back into my room with a plate full of salad, lamb loin portions, kidney and caramelized onion.  

An Insomniac Nap

I watched a news political forum and was amused with the partisan sides some analysts took, which made me depressed to know the filter of self-preservation has omitted modern news.  All I wanted to do nonetheless was sleep.  I resorted to a sleeping pill to overcome insomnia, but even its serious measure was ineffective.  

I recommenced an attempted sleep at 11:15am but the caffeine inside me with its life of seven hours reeked havoc.  I never remember a wink of sleep, but when I awoke four hours later at 3:30pm, I was refreshed.

The Roosters versus Cowboys semifinals aired match was the reason I woke up, as I rushed the television on and raided the fridge for yogurt before a dash back into the bedroom.  

Family Chat In The Backyard

I recall my brother was outside with my parents.  All of them were betrothed in menial conversation.

I was lumped on the toilet in the middle of a sloppy load when I overheard mum complain how she is so bored in the house and wanted to travel, but her excuse was she had no money.  

“I will hand you money,” dad would say.

My brother explained that all she needed was a dollar for a whole day.  Eric on the other hand explained how Lottie is prepared to sit for a provisional license.  My brother explained the benefits of the pension on car registration.  Dad had additional laconic comments to make in a discussion lathered in sunshine outside.

I measured 85.2 kilos on the scales on the walk back into the bedroom with yogurt in hand.  I have neglected the freezer because all the provisions inside there involve clean dishes and patience, which is what my life on the brink fails to have.

I watched in distracted concentration the first half of the Roosters versus Cowboys semifinal match, as I researched online sources for caffeine.

The Maltese Service Girl

When halftime arrived I jaunted to the local shops to purchase a carbonated functional drink.  I had hoped for a safe one, but none of these controversial drinks are safe.  Their convenience compensates for their adverse effects.

It was nice nonetheless to speak in a topical manner to the impeccable, sublime Maltese service chick in the chicken and chips store.  I pondered on the drinks in their freezer.  Then she intervened to help me make a decision.  I walked over with a can and explained the commercial spins and the misuse of guarana.  

“I was addicted to caffeine years back,” the female with a fresh face, a smile in her eyes and dark hair said.  

“If I knew the repercussions,” she added.  

I nevertheless could sense she rather liked to keep our conversation platonic, as no matter how uninhibited a chum I was; her predisposition was of formal niceties.

I was held up in this process of decision for fifteen minutes before I chose some carbonated guarana drink that had ginseng and all other gimmicks.  

Guarana, Taurine & Caffeine Research

I scuttled home to arrive by 5:00pm and focused more on the semifinals match now, which was a thriller.  

I searched the website for the carbonated drink online because it was rife with undisclosed information, but the website was as deceptive.  If I were never addicted I would stop, but this beverage seemed to spruce me up from an enervated mood to a dab of sparkle.

I needed a small pleasurable release after the Roosters slid home with a marginal victory; so on roared my speakers with music as a sustenance motivator while I embarked on a small workout at 5:40pm.  

Backyard Gym Session

I encountered my brother outside, solemn, with a shaved head down to a zero.  I complimented the previous proactive impulses of enthusiasm with a pair of incline bench presses to consolidate on a week of small workouts.  I meanwhile spoke of plans to purchase more equipment for the bench press.  I was pleased to see the bench press bar holders were modified, which shows my brother is comfortable to exercise on the machine.

“I have to purchase a bar for the biceps,” I said in small connotative considerations, which was a means for me to reassure my brother ours is a bond and not a bother.  

“I may leave my workout gloves here as well if you need to use them,” accompanied a new proposal.  

He soon disappeared inside within seconds before I completed a set.  

“I better leave you alone,” he assumed I preferred space, as he sequestered himself from our company and walked back into his bedroom.

Ten minutes later a welcomed shower sanitized me from a dank temperature caused by hours of a heater at the helm of my clerical chair.  I also shampooed a smell of perspiration from my hair, rinsed with a towel and furnished the desire to exercise with a sole set on the abdominal roller in my bedroom, before I procured the native position back in my clerical chair prepared to commence on research at 6:15pm.

The Battle Of The Sound Systems

I had hoped for insertion into the memoir but the neighborhood imbecile, vainglorious in his infernal parade, broke a concentration I had worked hours to achieve.  The self-confessed show pony blasted his car loaded with vindicatory bass in a fallacious inconspicuousness that fooled only the doer.  So to remain proactive; I blasted some of my own to drown out his.

In a controlled environment, I now commenced on the guarana research file to document three prior months of coffee and functional carbonated drink use, which really placed matters into perspective.  I discovered how rife with prior misconceptions I was until the formalization of a dossier into guarana and caffeine.  

I used to believe coffee had more detrimental effects than guarana, which precipitated its mainstream acceptance and eventual addiction.

Consult Brother About Hyperbaric Chambers

When I realized the imbecile had retired back inside his house to idolize his other vanities, I lowered the volume on my stereo and prepared the preface, which was to be the analogical hyperbaric syndrome.  

I had the analogical vision in my head and studied online in the dictionaries and search engines for a lead to help discover the word hyperbaric, which niggled in my head.  In the end I had to run upstairs to ask my brother because I knew his experience as a lifeguard would translate to an answer.

Eric spoke of a decompression chamber while I spoke of a hyperbaric chamber, as he explained the function of a chamber and its use for deep-sea divers.  

Curiosities led us downstairs and online, where we raced to search for the name.  My brother manned an encyclopedia and I wandered online.  The rise I received when we found the bonanza invigorated me.  I then happily helped my brother reap his own rewards.  

Eric Considers Pilot License

“I would like to see how much aviation licenses cost,” my brother asked.

He explained his ambition to save money and learn the basics of a helicopter.  

“If you have a license you can find work in other countries easily and make thousands of dollars,” Eric pondered the prospects.

I am either full of pessimism or laden by realism but it all seems like a pipedream to me.  Eric understands he would need a commercial license, but then he would need thousands of dollars, and then credentials.  If he decided to move abroad he would have to sever his financial lifeline, which is welfare.  

I can see the idealism in how his criminal record and other incriminations would be overlooked in foreign countries, but where he professes he saves three thousand dollars a year, he would have to be resolved for years and never swayed by his hoarder behavior, to purchase car accessories here, a computer there, or other misconstrued conveniences.  

Eric has dreams like I had dreams, whose resolutions I could see.  But I pulled the wool over my eyes, and now I realize I pandered to unrealistic dreams.

Taurine-Fueled Memoir Work

I since wrote feverish accounts on the hyperbaric syndrome for over two hours, until I sprinted down to the local shops at 10pm to purchase a further poison of carbonated drink, which also had an undisclosed amount of guarana inside.  

I hoped for a carbonated taurine drink but the female at the local drive-in liquor shop explained how the brand had been eliminated because it caused too much controversy.  

“The one we have in there is much safer,” this older blonde broad huskier in her voice explained.

I arrived back home for a continuation of duties with newfound permission for this life of insensible self-preservation, whose aim is to use all propitious vices like atrophic caffeine perks to avoid the cusp of burnout.  

I am now finished on contemporary issues after several pedantic hours.  I feel the lassitude from excessive stress, but much unfinished work also needs to be tended to.  

The promise of sleep to return with mental sharpness tomorrow consumes me, but to postpone is to sink, and to sink is to be squeezed by pressure.  So a half-cocked memoir may as well be done now to rear proper perspicuous revision in a month to clear up this muddle.