indulgence is a dying art.
a means to go out
on sensory overload.
the intent of the whole bucket list
in one fell swoop.
experience looks into the mirror
and the reflection back is
a neurological stampede into overwhelm.
comparative truth is not hardwired for this.
indulgence has no eventual story,
just fallout and mindful debris,
and the fill of a vacancy
as if a deadbeat dad’s excuse.
even the impetus for indulgence
is a false notion of sourcing oneself.
it is the contradiction between
more is better
versus even enough is too much.
look, if humans could fly
would baggage be necessary?
sorry, maybe that is too off the topic at hand.
indulgence only pleases the audience of self
and not the core of being the being.
indulgence is an overdose of side-effects.
living for experience
would take a long time to master.
and if ever mastered,
experience is an outcome away,
far away,
from the presence of being . . .
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