The Friendship of Addiction
06 Dec, 2017
...is perhaps the most beautiful kind. Now I don’t necessarily mean addiction to drugs or alcohol (though I know from experience that it too yields memorable friendships). I think the strongest resonance of what I mean by addiction in this context can inadequately be found in what the management gurus call “passion”. But “passion” is still tame for a word for the addiction I am talking about. This kind is immaterial, it is mental, it is all-consuming, it is idealistic, and when it is shared, it is phenomenal, it is incestuous. Stretch it further and it is the most blissful violation of the self. The inability of its articulation lends it strength.
I am fortunate to have come across people who, for the lack of a better word, understand my addiction. They get me. They recognise the dreaminess and contribute to it. They enhance it by the very fact of their existence. They pull me back into the normalcy of addiction, reaffirming with every contact that if this is crazy, then this crazy doesn’t exist on its own. This crazy has a community, and while it may have few visitors, it doesn’t exist in total vacuum. I have been lucky that way.
So that’s why I think perhaps I get them too. On a level that is quite also scary. Scary because the binding affect is sometimes both external and internal to me, alien to the memory of the body, familiar to the memory of the mind. Scary also to let the mind wander to seek the ephemeral company of another’s under a constant apprehension of being mauled. Tangibility destroys it.
And hence the abstraction. Approaching-Platonic. Because its nature is incompatible with the materiality of vehicles, excursions, accents, terrains, utility, climates. Decadent in but few occasions of unbearable opulence, it looks down upon materiality as inferior and commonplace, which I think is ironic considering Hazaribagh is such commonplace of a town, and which I think is magical considering Hazaribagh is such commonplace of a town.