Drink. Drunk. Drinking. Booze. Alcohol.
Tonight I drink with pleasure. Tonight I drink with pain.
Tonight the desks, the chairs, the floors, the walls, the hallways drink with me.
The crows outside toast each other.
The canines, the felines of the world all sit together and drink.
Tonight I drink with the homeless, the jobless, the loveless.
I drink with the poor, the lonely, the forgotten.
I drink with the madhouses and whorehouses.
When you read my work – no, when I read my work, I notice everything I write is just different ways toward the same old thoughts. Just like drinking brings me back to the state of euphoria every time.
Repetition is crucial if you want to circulate an idea and get it out there in the open.
That’s why I write about governments, corruption, sad songs, incomplete love stories, death, dying people, starvation, decapitation, renegades, drunks, madmen.
I am not some kind of fallen hero, I am not an assailant of the dark. I am neither a mage nor a wizard.
I am no defender of truth and peace; I am not an advocate of justice.
I simply write what occurs to me, what runs down my mind and courses all the way through my veins. I write with every drop of blood that falls from my body.
They say it takes much to make a writer, and I am far from getting there. I am just scraping the surface of writing.
But I also write for the voiceless, the broken things, the unsought things of this world. Things forgotten, gone bad, abandoned in the pit of humanity.
I cry for those in need of crying. I transcribe in words the prayers of the hopefuls.
I give life to those who have given up on it. I bring back visions of the dead.
There are kind days and there are rough days and man has the privilege of living through both.
But a man who writes knows only the long, arduous days. The man who writes comes back to a house with no roof, no water and no electricity.
He comes back to a cheating wife, an amputated child and a stack of bills waiting for him on the desk by the front door.
He comes back to a series of thunderstorms and car crashes, traffic jams and sickness.
He comes back to defeat and rejection.
He comes back to alcohol and drugs. And more alcohol.
Or at least, that’s the way he sees it.
I raise my glass and hear the party outside. The city is all well and alive. Boys and girls partying and drinking.
But surely they are not drinking for the same reasons as I am. I raise another glass.
Drink. Drunk. Drinking. Booze. Alcohol….