There’s something special about my ideas. See if this makes sense to you.
I have a terrible pain that visits me every day. No medicine or process designed to prevent the daily episode has ever worked. To discourage me from weeping myself to death, my doctors have prescribed potent narcotics. These serve not to banish the pain, but to insulate me from it. They work well in that regard. But they have another effect, which is no curse but a blessing. They’re visions. My ideas come out of the visions.
What makes my ideas so special is that they’re still good ideas when I’m not stoned.
Not long ago, my mate and I were locked in a cycle of pain so powerful that it seemed we could not stop hurting each other unless we parted. When I was young, I swore to myself that I would never stay in a relationship that gave me more grief than joy over a timeline of years. Since then I had sworn another oath, and that to my mate. This vow to both of us superceeded any vow I once made to myself alone.
Since I had sworn an oath, I brought us to the underpaid sages of behavioral medicine. The did not heal us, but they taught us how to heal each other. And heal we did.
Slowly at first, but more rapidly, the holes we had ripped through the relationship were mended. When the holes were repaired, our relationship could once again hold joy. We filled it full of joy expressed in all parts of our lives. No the least of those joys were the ones that we had consummated upon a beautiful cherrywood hand-made king-sized bed that I had bought to seal the marriage vow.
So I had an Idea.
“Let’s not limit these joys to once or twice a week,” I said, even though those sessions were long and languorous and filled with pleasure. “If we can learn to be briefer, we might celebrate our marriage every day on that bed.”
And he assented.