The point of being drunk.
The point of being drunk is to lose yourself.
The point of being drunk is to listen to great music and marvel at your nothingness.
The point of being drunk is to find yourself.
The point of being drunk is to not remember the next morning.
Ah. Partial amnesia-The great leveller.
So what if she did not remember last night? There will be more nights.
So what if she did not remember? There will be more memories.
So what if the lines rhyme? There will be more prose.
So read on.
Ever wondered why they are called that? The blues.
The colour of the cigarette smoke hanging in the air.
Like a curtain-shielding you from the world.
It’s blue smoke.
One of those days when I feel that words are not enough.
I wish I could show you the picture.
A dark room, with a little halo around the fairie lights in the corner.
A mirror, with an image only half seen through hazy eyes and the smoke around.
I see my collar bones, and I know they are a lie. I’m not an emaciated waif, with starvation on her mind and a knowing smile on her lips (regurgitation is the secret of my youth).
The cigarette butt glows in the dark. And I try to pick it up and miss.
Oh, I wish I had an image to show you.
‘The memory remains’ is playing and I am trying to light another one.
And the twinkly lights are doing their job. I do not fear any ghosts.
I have taken over the shadow world.
And the twinkly lights are doing their job.
There is a distinct point, where you stop being satisfied and start being alone.
The danger zone.
You will message someone. You will call. You will make a desperate gtalk gambit. You will finally use watsapp.
But you will reach out.
This is the time right before dawn. The time of the deepest sleep.
Please wake up.
We have work to do.