Drinking the poison, smoking the cartons (A pack and a half a day).

August 18, 2015 § Leave a comment


“For sale: Baby shoes, never worn.” Ernst

At the end of the play, the trees all get wheeled away.

At the end of the play, the trees all get wheeled away.

 Hemingway. 

Reach for the moment. Hope that, when it comes, it comes clean. It comes forgiving how much it has found itself lost and ignored. Blessed are hopeful and cursed are the delivered, hell hath no fury like a dream succeeded and complacency left to rot these halls and sink this ship. I had lost the tenacity, the madness. The belief and that cock eyed confidence. The magic that I’d let define me for so long. I’d let myself drift. I’d papered over the cracks and been left adrift at the mercy of the tide.

When I was all bravado and madness I wasn’t happy. It’s not that I’m not happy now. It’s that it’s slipping. I’m slipping. I’d lost the belief. The time to believe in me. I was too busy. Too busy to make my heartbeat a little faster everyday. Too busy to find that blissful moment before the deed in which I knew there was no returning and I was yet to embark on any knowledge of the outcome. That stomach dropping moment when you step from the cliff edge, leave the comfort of matched gravity and find it sucking you into a huge, open abyss which was once the thing that kept you safe. I was in danger because that was the choice I made. I was in danger because I wasn’t ready to be safe yet.

Is this happiness? It’s duller than I thought. It’s foe, it’s fake, it’s an imposter. I’m a liar and a charlatan at constant war with the words of my past. The wants, the needs, the attitudes that I let get worn away. I was a parody of me riddled with whiskey and self loathing. The core doesn’t change, you just get better at hiding.

But then a warm relief washed over me. I had my hope, I had my fight. I hated me, but for good reason. I hated me as a motivation to change. I wasn’t worn enough to embrace what I had become. And sure, maybe that is the inevitable fate that will follow and seal my transition into what I will become. But for now, for now at least, I find great comfort in the hate I feel for myself.

It’s riddled and twisted and pissed and weird. Untouchable at times and lost over and over again like it’s the only word I can type. Jaded and tired and full of holes, still afloat, still fighting the tide and spitting in the wind.

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