I slept poorly last night. Heartburn. But not the burning kind. It was the kind where there is pressure and a sense of pushing outward; a slow-motion chest explosion. I can still feel it with each breath. I knew I shouldn't have eaten that chicken vindaloo last night, but I couldn't resist its delicious lure. It's the price I must pay for indulging my tongue at my stomach's expense. It's easy to forget that the mouth is only the doorway to a destination. Often, we treat our tastebuds as though they are the destination.
Maybe I'm wrong, maybe I'm actually having a time-lapse stroke; I have been eating a lot of ice cream lately. The body, and its craving, is a mysterious thing. At times, it seems to be utterly disinterested in the pursuit of pleasures, preferring regimented eating with a lot of structure and an emphasis on health. Other times, though, it voraciously sucks up fats and toxins with the force of an industrial strength vacuum.
The same is true for want of company. At least, for me. If our diets are informed by our bodies' needs - craving peanut butter when low on fats, or bread when starved of carbs - then what mechanism controls our emotional urges? What, or where, is the indicator for these types of imbalances? In our heads and on our sleeves, I suppose.
In that rupturing feeling in your chest, swelling with every breath.
No comments:
Post a Comment