Current mood:	discontent
Current music:	The Dutch Courage~The Spill Canvas

Live Alone With Your Chemicals and Gin
The sound cracks into the open air as I grit my teeth a little too hard once again, things are slipping as they always seem to do. I’m starting to forget, thoughts slip away from me like the smoke I exhale into the air. Here of my own action, gone in the next second. The idea so pure, so perfect in its intangible form; gone before I get a second peek. But the things I’m choosing to forget can’t seem to dissipate in the way I want to, I’m a murderer. Hacking and slashing through the lives I’ve lived before, at the people who used to own the prime real estate of my attention. And I can’t seem to make it past 4 pm without some sort of drink, before the hope of escaping the nervousness and the shaking seems nothing more than just another creative dream of a sunken girl.

I finally roused myself out of the bed to go for a walk, a part of me felt chased out but it was the nice kick in the ass I needed. Anything to just get out of the room filled with all the books and the bed lying there like a beacon to derail the courses I’ve laid out. Walking along the canal lined with full moon spheres and the soft crunch of salt on wires. I saw the moon and the distant lights sifting through wind swept trees, the path is always the same as are the sights but the imagination, inspirations, and myself never are.

I am a coward, debasing myself to the point of a wounded animal but never enough to be the beast. Building myself up to a man but never following it through. And somewhere the idea of truth might justify all these poor excuses for sentences starting with Ands and Buts. There’s no justification really, not when you miss the heat of flesh and the comfort in skin. It’s the lump in my throat and the phlegm I can’t get rid of. The hacking cough only the uncontrollable reminder of all that’s missing. All just for a clear throat to speak up, to feel unanchored by the past. But shit. It may taste awful, but it works.

I don’t even know why I bother drinking, I hardly ever feel drunk anymore. Just on the road to getting there, then hung over, forehead resting in my hands with the forearm as the load bearing beam. This dizzying nauseousness with the guilty conscience being the signal that the buzz has passed. Drinking until I feel the click but it passes effortlessly, no matter the amount of work I’m putting into it.

If all I feel is this collection of failures, if these lists of faults no longer justify the endless amounts of excuses I’m capable of producing then perhaps I have a proven record to discredit. Especially when death is certain and life is not. If I want to live, why not start now? If I ever did live, it was chasing death down every rabbit hole. Line after line, pill after pill, shot after shot. Then there would be nothing to change, except brands of whiskey once a week.