Damn You, Bukowski

Living in my head for so long has made existing in society an excruciating task.

Somehow looking at others living makes me even more desperate. They seem so effortless in their endeavours. But the truth is… they aren’t. However, in my mind, the thought process remains pretty much the same.

Living is a terrible piece of work. Living makes me wish I was drunk all the time (how Bukowski had it right!!!)

I walk towards the metro entrance and I experience a mind-numbing death.

I walk out of my workplace and I feel worse than before.

What am I but a mashed-up meatball of condensed worry and ideas?

(I wish I had something more to drink.)

When I was young, I didn’t understand the purpose of alcohol. (Why would you want to shut your feelings and thoughts down?) It didn’t make sense.

Now, I realize the reasons that lead people to addiction or simply to use up alcohol. The illusion it creates is too big to pass up.

(Fuckin’ Bukowski had it right.)

(Can I have another drink?)

The problem is thinking. Or rather, overthinking. And if you ask me, from what I have observed so far… We all do it. We all fall trap to it.

Damned conscience. Damned brain. Damned life.

Can’t we just breathe?

We consider everything except not considering anything at all.

We can’t help but imagine scenarios of our lives under different circumstances and pressure factors.

And here we fucking are.

(Get that man another whiskey.)

Living is a mess. Living is painful. Living is a sleepless night.

Living is being too drunk to ever recognize we need rest.

Can we handle this existence?

Or should we just hold on to a bottle and hope it will all go smoothly?

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