Fesenjan

Where is the line between pleasure and discomfort?

This afternoon I ate so much, I could feel the strings inside my belly were rubbed so fiercely and so repeatedly that the subtleties that compose variation, and therefore musicality, were entirely devoured by a permanent fortissimo that turned the delicate play between tension and distension into pure noise. The noises my belly makes every Tuesday at 11.33 -again, not 11.33, but I like round numbers, round as the roundest belly-, the noises my belly makes every evening before getting ready for bed, the noises that echo the loud voices in my head. Louder than the loudest silence I crave. 

A glass of doogh, fresh, sour, minty, white and black and fun and tall and elegant like a dalmatian. Warm bademjan, and warm freshly baked crispy bread -2 portions are never enough; bread is what nurtures the soul. 2 portions of dolmeh- finally! I had been dreaming about these for weeks now - I even looked images up!; the mere idea of them had made my mouth water... maybe the imagination does have a direct influence over the body? (the more I eat, the more ideas make sense). That warm chocolate-looking stew that brought memories back; memories of it and memories of him... many courses have passed since then, yet I'm still as hungry and as greedy as the first time; and yes, I'm still slimmer and fatter, for my tummy is always bloated up ever since (once more, the influence of love and food over the body and the soul). Yellow crispy rice, and the reddish smell of cardamom. A sip of bitterness. Crumbly yet buttery chickpea blossom-like paste that makes me think of mazapán; jam and pistachios like that song by Lisa Hannigan; coconut like the candy I'd recently described to him-who was it again?, 'such a saint, but such a whore'; sip, sip, sip; breathe, breathe, breathe. Pain kicks in. Fresh water, and fresh fruit. Usually, simple is the best. Usually, simple is the hardest to achieve.

When exactly did the most heightened state of comfort just turn into discomfort? When did overindulgence turn into physical pain? When was meaning lost? When did I cross the line?

(I think back of that morning, of that concept, conceptual history, the name of that book, what was the name of the author anyways? I remember he was French, one of those French guys, he is French, he could help me out with my French... he could help me out, I don't have to be alone and silent again. Anyways. Where is the line between the normal and the pathological? Is it a matter of balance? Is it an ontological matter? In what terms should we think about our bodies? They're trapped in concepts, ideas, yet pleasure and pain, comfort and discomfort are so real. All I want is emotional comfort).

So full, yet so greedy. So greedy, yet so fed-up. So full, yet so empty. It tasted like sand ('everything tastes like sand!', and that line from around 2 years ago finally made sense), it looked like sand, it smelled like sand, in spite of the infinite blinks and inspirations and exhalations, and inflated and deflated bellies. Everyone has the same face, and everyone has the same voice, and we all wear masks, and we all are puppets, except for you. 'I WANNA BE THE ONE TO WALK IN THE SUN!' A quick glimpse of meaning. That's what it was. From London to America, to Ukraine, to Persia...

Why did I do it again? 

From hunger, from greediness, from emptiness