The sign of a drunken person is not through the sound of vibrant disillusion shouting obscenities through existential inebriation, but in the length of their face when they wake up one day to that stark realization that whatever once was can never be again.

The eyes become darker, mute and cold, the mind obscured by all the things they probably cared about when they had the opportunity but never merely took; and it is in their demeanor where life seethes nowhere in the voice except where it is merely enough to get them through just one more begrudging day of sinister regret gnawing at their heels every waking moment.

Hollow souls show us what we never want to be but somehow so many of us succumb to the same discrepancies and injustices of belittlement from the world around us: sober eyes and sharp tongues convincing us we are nothing more than what we think we are; and what we are to begin with is nothing, taking shape from the beginning of it all, ready to be molded into something grand and good – we must all start from somewhere, but most are subjugated before any of it can even begin; and ultimately, many of us never truly live at all.

Drunken, with the desire to simply live.