Dear Diary,
Yesterday, during a break between rounds of a board game, while sipping a surprisingly pleasant “Kaunas Non-Alcoholic”, Lina, one of the members of our large and harmonious leisure collective, touched on the topic of how it once happened that long, long ago, it seems even in a previous life, alcoholic beverages withdrew from my world, whimpering and angrily waving their limbs. Since the dust of time had already sufficiently covered that August of 2017, I could only vaguely recall that the buzz once gave something, but over time, as meditation self-study practices grew stronger and longer, it stopped giving.
Today, having asked Google’s assistant to play a “Smooth Jazz” playlist on Spotify and while sipping morning coffee in a cozy musical backdrop, I recalled yesterday’s conversation and tried to pull brighter memories from the layers of memory, arranging them into a clearer mosaic. The times, I remember, were just as dark as “Kaunas Dark”, whose two-liter bottle at the “Šilas” store cost only three litas and ninety-nine cents. But, unlike beer sold at the price of water, the times had absolutely no caramel flavor. Absolutely none.
Now it’s unclear whether those times were made dark by the environment and the era, or whether I myself voluntarily immersed myself in rust and a stinking mass, which let’s literarily call pitch. On one hand, financial worries pressed down, and pressed so hard that a hanging mouse more often hung in the refrigerator than a piece of sausage. On the other hand, I felt so mediocre and incomplete that come hell or high water I demanded that life return my other half. But, of course, younger and more beautiful than the previous one. Both life and the girls I unilaterally designated as candidates for this so important position, of course, shrugged their shoulders at such strict requirements and, as was to be expected, went their own way. Which, of course, caused me indescribable, almost physical pain and other not the most pleasant internal turmoil, which, as if that weren’t enough, was supplemented by not the most pleasant experiences in the workplaces of that time.
It was already clear then that if the attention was captured by the thought-washing machine whirling inside on “centrifuge” mode, there must also be a way to pry it out of there. Or, as is popular to say, to “forget”. After all, if there’s an entrance, logic dictates there must also be an exit. And there was an exit – as I mentioned above, it stood on the “Šilas” shelves, poured into those fine, now historical two-liter bottles. And here everything is very logical and everyday – the alcohol industry would collapse the very moment humanity lost the need to “forget”, or a lighter form of that need – “to relax” – when the washing machine in the head on “centrifuge” mode isn’t really running anymore, but you still want to yank it from the power socket.
Returning to the meditation self-study. During incense burning and mantra chanting… Well alright alright, I’m joking, it wasn’t that bad :-). In short, through practice, experiments, and analysis, I arrived at the conclusion that the washing machine in the inner world is a process with little control. But the attention it captures does submit to some control. Although, of course, one needs to work on that and grow a strong, muscular, veiny attention. And by controlling attention, we indirectly control the washing machine too – deprived of the former, it tends to use the auto-shutoff function. Without getting into all that belles-lettres and complex inner processes, all that remains to be said is that a day came when on a regular Friday I cracked open a beer can and realized the futility of this act – the inside was already quiet and peaceful, like the Eiguliai district at four in the morning. So why would I need a futility that costs a whole handful of euros, right?
The thought carousel hasn’t disappeared anywhere over the years. But it became familiar, tamed, and one’s own. It’s pleasant to observe how everything that causes me the greatest anxiety and stress, as well as everything that at other times causes maximum joy and admiration, always happens in exactly the same space, on the same inner stage, right before the same inner nose. That mood improves not from places, not from surroundings, not from changing sobriety, but simply from the genre of action on that stage – when inner tragedy is replaced by light inner comedy or pleasant melodrama. In other words – being among bad people, remember the good ones in your imagination and the bad ones become powerless in their futile journey toward your emotional ruin.
And if, with favorable circumstances aligning, you manage for at least a few minutes to chase away all the imagination actors, participants of heated inner dialogues, cities, streets and walls and extinguish the inner stage lights, leaving in their place only its foundation – a cozy and peaceful emptiness – accept congratulations – you, like that Napoleon, can confidently declare yourself emperor of your own little world. A world where you no longer need to uncork anything in order to forget.
Have a peaceful remaining Sunday!
