The Coiling Snake of Tension Headache

And a Man Who Lived to be 110

            I am Theseus.
            How long I’ve been in the Underground I cannot say. Already I have lost my way. The muscles in my back have become like knotted ropes. Sleep eludes me.
            My memory of the Land Above is like a billowing mist. I have met with no one, and no one has met with me. The darkness is my only friend.
            A serpent found me “yesterday” and coiled itself about my head in a tight and constricting band, “8 out of 10” in severity. My eyes ache, as if they might burst.
            How does anyone manage such pain in the Land of the Living? I can’t remember. Massage isn’t helping me. Prayer will be tried when I can think a bit.
            In the distance, I perceive 20 voices, prisoners of the Enemy in a tunnel off to the right. Should I proceed in my current state, try to find them, map their location, and let them know the King will be coming for them? Or should I not?
            This headache is like the crushing onset of flu or COVID, ancient diseases of the World Above. I recall hearing of a powder in the Land of the Living—three pinches twice a day for five days to smite the COVID snake. But there are no powders here.
            Shall I turn away from the 20 voices? It is the same question I would have asked in the Land of Wind and Sunshine: If I proceed with my daily work, will I bring affliction to those I meet? Will I think clearly enough to do my work? Or will the vile friends of my Afflicter follow me and leap upon those I had hoped to help? Will I defeat this serpent sooner by pressing on, or by lying still?
            I dreamed I journeyed in a mountainous land with my adult son Josiah, to a city called Colorado Springs. There I learned how to improve upon my mapping of this Underground.
            I dreamed we visited great vertical red rocks, known collectively as “The Garden of the Gods,” where birds with blue wingtips and long straight tailfeathers glided silently by in single file, sweeping between the obelisks.
            Gazing on, I told my son, “I must not spend my energies sending messages to this World Above, but rather save my strength for the mapping yet to come.”
            My son replied, “Send up one message. Let your friends and family know you are still alive. Perhaps something good will come of it. I have heard of serpents losing their strength when messages are sent.”
            So I decided to sing from the depths, at least this once, though I knew not what to say. My song could well be found incomprehensible, like the babble of a bubbling brook, or vanishingly distant, like a dream within a dream. But so be it. I was grasping for the anchors of reality and for the wisdom of the ages.

*          *          *

A Remembrance, from the Depths

            I once knew a man who lived to be 110 years old. Before he died, I asked him for the secret to his long life. “Chew your food,” he said. And I reflected upon the meaning. Slow down. And don’t choke.
            The second time I met him, I dared to ask for another kernel of wisdom. “Get up every day,” he said.
            The year he turned 110, he was growing frail. He was more than twice my age, and I felt unworthy to interrupt the quiet between us. But I asked for one final nugget, knowing it was my last chance to learn from the ancient man. “Surround yourself with beautiful women,” he said.

*          *          *

            From the depths, I struggled with a severe headache, not knowing what to do or how to find relief. Then I sang about it from within the pit of darkness. And to my surprise, the serpent coiling around my head loosened its grip. My burden of pain decreased. I set forth toward the twenty prisoners in the tunnel ahead—my day’s labor—and I reflected upon the three insights from the oldest man I ever knew: chew your food; get up every day; and surround yourself with beautiful women.

            Proceeding apace, in the service of the King,

            Theseus

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