Drinking and Smoking and Other Attempts to Kill Pain

I saw myself going back to that tavern. I was dissociating my way home.

I saw myself having a glimpse at the long gone past. And old loves. And mind troubles. (I didn’t wish to come back, that’s for sure.)

I saw drunken shadows of men playing cards. And drinking more. And smoking even more.

I saw some kids having beers as well and I wondered where the fuck their beards were. (Yes, I am that much of an asshole, sometimes.)

I saw the guy I loved trying his luck in the game. I’m not sure he had any.

I saw the lady serving the drinks to every damned soul in that God-forsaken place and cleaning tables after what I thought were spectres of human beings.

Everyone was fighting a secret struggle. Some acknowledged it, some didn’t. Some challenged the ideas others had from them, some assured others they were fucking mad of their brains. But in a fleeting moment, no one cared.

I was observing. Slightly drunk to forget loneliness. But the alcohol is a tricky motherfucker. And he can revive your buried feelings, and he can poke the wildest dreams into jumping out onto reality.

To avoid it, I wrote. Hoping the guy I loved would recognize it. (He tried to, I figure. But the real truth is he couldn’t give a fuck about my words or actions.)

And I drank more.

And I observed others. And then I lost myself in the midst of the game-playing, loud shouting and heavy drinking bodies.

(I found it fascinating. What did those people have in their minds? Why where they acting that way?)

But in there… There was no judgement. The black sheep, the outcasts, all the cats in there… Were one in that altered state.

And me… I was observing.

And drinking to get to a point where you can pretend you are happy…

In reality, me and every damn person in that place… Were merely a little less miserable with every sip we took.

And things never changed. Every time I came back. Not a single thing changed.

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