I find that I am sometimes anxious when I have no real need to be. I may simply lack the faculty of self-aware consideration at these times, preventing me from ascertaining - and then disposing of - the source of my anxiety. In such straits, a quiet smoke is often the best remedy.
Doubtlessly, the calming effect of the nicotine itself achieves the greatest share of this, but other considerations also enter in. For one, in order to smoke, I must retreat from the house to the outdoors. This removes me from the arena in which I face most of my stressful moments, and places me in proximity to the greater world of nature, which (especially on such a day as this) strikes me with its unhurried, contented going-about-its-business. That is a better sort of world to be part of.
As the breath slows, one takes notice of the speech of birds, and a meaning is sensed in the curling tendrils of smoke, a fiery counterpoint to the Cimbrian priestesses' eddies, blood of the earth and sea of the flesh.
Jünger's writings on drugs present me with a veiled, half-glimpsed truth, accessible more as a feeling than as the understanding of an idea. The same is true of his writing on danger, or (to be honest) any of it.
I am no mystic, obsessively yearning with a fiery passion to comprehend the secret meanings of all things. Instead, I content myself with a brief glimpse, half-hidden, easy to misinterpret as accidental. Rather than the burning consummation, my share is the ambiguous smile, the half-hinting glance.
Most would be discontented with such uncertainty, but I have made my peace with it. Within that there is an unhurriedness, and there is mystery there, the very stuff of the Holy. The ones who lived here before indicated with one word the mysterious and the divine, and the wisest of us have spoken of "allowing as how" and of "Entlassenheit." In the end, anxiety is emptied of its purpose.
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