A calendar is but blank white boxes lined up in a perfect row, full of promise and opportunity. My calendar is illegible, completely blacked out, written in a forgotten language.
Days no longer awaken me slowly or softly. Days speed by like a racecar hitting my brain and running my guts over.
I’ve learned to befriend the bottle, as whiskey knows all my secrets, and ***** is a close friend of mine. Drinking is the cure all to end all.
It wasn’t always this way. Halfway between a split second and an eternity ago, the world went quiet.
Have you ever met a ghost? Someone so infectious with energy, but disappears faster than your last cigarette. As soft as spring comes, as does the slow lull of sadness.
So to death, I drink. I party as the demons want. I sip until I’m sick. Stare upon my corpse, make peace with the unknown. I one day will have my little ghost back again.
As I appear before you, not quite dead, but certainly not alive. Who will teach me to fear the abyss, to no longer be one with the void? Until I can learn to no longer dance with the devils, I sit alone at the bar. Unseen to the world, with blind eyes turned from every direction. Sorrow is more attentive than bliss.