go eat ice

When I say I eat ice to feel something, I don’t necessarily need something to feel; it’s not a numbness that I’m trying to cope with. It’s more of a passive activity I engage in to find a mundane moment in my otherwise chaotic Google calendar.

 

I savour the sensation of the freezing ice surrendering its cold on my hot tongue, drips of frigid water pooling in the cozy concavity of my mouth. The cold clears my head of upcoming deadlines and replaces it with equanimity. A quiet moment to reflect; an act of rebellion against routine. I get time to myself to think about things I want to think about, like how much I’m going to enjoy being 70, retired, and free to explore all my probing curiosities I have about the world. Or the physics behind how you could use an energy generator to convert the 20 watts of energy our brains can generate into usable electrical energy. So, when I say I eat ice to feel something, I guess I really mean I eat ice to feel the absence of something. The absence of entropy but the presence of reverie.