morsel

It starts off insidiously.

First a small bite, a tantalising taste - I savour the spicy richness, the crisp texture resounds in my head. My taste buds buzz with delight.

I pause and wait, comtemplating the experience, absentmindedly reflecting back on the experience that has just passed as I go on with other things I was doing previously. Time passes.

The last threads of flavours die out, and slowly, my attention once again becomes focussed on the little bowl on my table. I stop doing what I'm doing, and delicately pick out my next target within the pile. This time the sharp tanginess is expected, but the burst of flavour is just as pleasing as before. I munch away, and the sensations gradually fade out as they chase the remnants running down my throat. Time passes.

This time, subconscious thoughts penetrate through my mind, popping up here and there, wondering about when the next might be. I am confused as I am distracted away from my task at hand. I look around the room, searching for what might be bothering me - my gaze once again rests on the little white dish. I grab the most perfect of the lot - little specks of colour speckling across the regular rounded shape - and quickly gobble it down. The flavour hits the palate, and I am sated.

The flavour is disappearing, but there is still a lingering question on my tongue. I frown. Attention wanders between the books and the bowl. There is a quick but intense inner struggle, me watching on the sidelines, not knowing what the outcome will be. But of course, I do know. My hand reaches out, and grabs whatever it can. This time I get the same hit, but it is somehow different. My tongue searches for what it is after, but yet can't quite locate. The flavour has built up, with this new assault combined with the remnants of the previous one, yet it is somehow not enough.

I quickly combine a pile easy enough to fit into my mouth now, and gobble it. I pass the contents around my mouth, searching longingly for the climax to hit, yet it is not quite there nor the same. The bitter saltiness is starting to creep up upon my palate, as the initial vestiges of the fine spiciness dwindle down to nothing. My books are forgotton about.

I lick my fingers now, searching longingly for the elusive target that may have accidentally been stuck there. They lack the overwhelming saltiness, but yet don't satiate me entirely. My handfuls grow by the second, as more and more are needed to keep my mind at peace. The white ceramic bowl is soon empty.

Soon, bowl after bowl is filled and emptied soon after the contents leave there resting place, and my physiological dependence and tolerance grows. There is no more pleasure in this endeavour - it is just keeping whatever stimulation on my tongue going for as long as possible. I am scared of letting the feeling go away. Brine overwhelms my fingers, and my senses - I can smell nothing but the ooze of the flavour hanging around the gritty ends of my teeth now. I feel I can go no further.

But the package is still not finished, a small group of left-overs sitting at the bottom. Though not wanting to continue the onslaught to my senses, reason finally succumbs; physiological dependence finally gives way to psychological dependence, and the rest are ungratiously spilled out on the used and dirty bowl and licked up clean.

And then, just like that, it is finished. There is no more. I am exhausted. Brief thoughts of grabbing a new lot cross my mind, but are duly shut out. I am nauseated. And then I think how lucky it is that there was an endpoint to all of this, that I was able to stop.

The complete stages of addiction, over a bag of chips.