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Shall I bleed here, in this, the electronic trauma ward, shed an ounce of this for a pound of that? What’s the market value on melancholy madness, and is it a viable form of payment at the liquor store? No, belay that. I do enjoy tipping the glass, but I do try to limit the tipping to happier times.
Ah, happy times.
So I prick a vein instead, gnaw my nails to the quick, and spin slowly upon the precipice as the wave crashes against those rocky crags below…so far below. We junkies, we dependant many, find vices in every shape and form. Habit hounds howling for a fucking fix, and at what price?
I don’t want to be rich, I don’t want fame…I just want those people I love to be comfortable, I want to be able to provide for them. So I work. I work through birthdays, deaths, anniversaries, games, recitals, award ceremonies. I work through first steps, first words, first laughs, first cries. When I’m needed most I’m not emotionally distant…I’m. Just. Fucking. Distant.
And a brief respite back does not avail the warm and fuzzy, but instead; it mires sentiment unto even further despondency, which of course I’m not unthankful for. To that end I can latch hold of the muse with ease, pluck intangible form into pulsating syntax, without the aid of inebriation to peer through that foggy veil.
More work, eh? More of the same and more time away with the mistress, but the family’s well fed and the Dirigible sails ever softly on yon clouds—making the fresh plowed earth below seem a thing of inconsequence.
It’s just a little lie, and one I’ll have to face later, but not now.
Not now.
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