thisishowitfeelstobeohsodeadly
I must confess that I am but a lanky child whose alcoholic tendencies tackle the winds of my sanity... the sails of a ship half keeled into the sea.
I have spent... nay, wasted... the majority of this vacation in solitude, seeking some inner peace which I am no convinced does not exist within the flesh bound within these four walls, and only when my godless figure is clearly and effevescently inebriated... (effevescently inebriated?) does my turmoil ring true with a demented reasoning.
Then of course, I forget it in the morning as well as whose pale body I had just lied beside the night before and the night before that and I think I have to
Stop. I become, for small instances, the very model of sobriety for those flagrantly beautiful souls inflicted with my condition and I lose what sanity I had left, sinking back into this self-loathing quiet self whose only saviour is thebeating heart of parties that no longer remember my name...
Or do they? This ridiculous stick figure drawn by an infant that would so much more be appropriate drawn with a skirt (had I not the problem of genitalia hanging so flagrantly between my legs) is called by a name to some so contemptible as 'attractive.'
And then I wonder whether if isn't more insane to be as sober as I am now, writing this, in a world where a body such as this could possibly be called attractive... at least in an alcoholic stupor I cannot remember that such words were ever uttered... and it begs of me the realization once again that my sanity is worth a much higher price than my memory.
Dearest lover,
I love you more than life itself...
Remembering those idyllic redundant phrases, stupid little nothings whispered into deaf ears. Why hear when one can feel? And when what is to be felt is the very extremeties of heaven and hell what little matter are these whispers?
Monkeys fetch me now to sleep. To dream, to remember more that I had so purposely tried to lose.