the addiction of eventfulness

the addiction of eventfulness, 

happens by its framing and our focus intent.

so much of our attention 

is by an adherence given,

as if we are sensory seduced by a framing style,

and addicted to recognition intake without regard.

we glam, we ingest, we consume.

we become our own vending machines.

sheep herds of experience stalking 

and subsequent sensory delivery,

grazing in the pastures of experiential monotony,

wanting for gems out of the graze.

so much the need for front stage action,

amid the background familiar proposes. 

living for the attention grab of a curious find,

the need for narratives with nouns in mind

and depictions supported by appropriate settings.

the addiction is daily life usage of the senses.

what if serene was the total surround

and tranquil the only overwhelming mood,

if quiet absorbed even the tiniest of sounds,

sight on a cloudless day, 

with a monotone horizon line bashfully imposing,

not even a fragrance of a breeze compelling,

where sight turns into a stare,

sound is inwardly made up in one's head,

and where touch is gravity's version 

of feet contacting earth?

actual input is at an impossible low.

one has to go with any motion 

as the pretend of action-packed happening.

would that then first person reveal,

one's addiction to eventfulness?

could peace and quiet exist without the frame

of high contrast existence?

could one have a place within

that is impenetrable to sensory influence?

could there be a hidden garden 

of unabashed inner tranquility

that defies all of experience overload,

to be present there

without the trappings and techniques

of experience, cognition

and the run-on into forthcoming narratives,

to camp without camping equipment,

to journey without the travel,

to sense without sensory imposing as overload,

and to be as if do was nonexistent?

the addiction is so strong,

it's hard to catch an initial edge

without the interest skills

that conger towards eventfulness in production.

what if be had no thought to it,

a presence without prop staging, 

without memory working towards an import?

just boldface be.

how long before the clamor edges in,

before the mind is starving for input,

before there is the running of the mind?

where self-occupancy has no want or need?

who the hell is that

before it gets noticed

as something to ponder distractively about?

no one gets out of this addictive state clean,

and certainly not without yearning and sorrow.

so if everyone, every human is doing this,

how can it possibly be considered 

as an addiction? . . .