Put it to the case like this then and let's say I'm on an island. I am on an island of solitude and righteous alcoholism in the middle of a sea. This is no ordinary sea on a map in a book you might burn next week, no. This is a harsh sea of judgmental hypocrisy that tosses often, and in the breaks are ships that might have tried to rescue me at some point. Well they're smashed and sundered now, and as you google sundered I walk down to the water's edge to try and see if anyone will wash up. Not a soul.
I've tuned my radio to catch signals and frequencies, and sometimes people out there can hear me screaming. However it has to be the liquor catching up to me at times, because I often fancy that it's not always me. It is at these times that the communique takes on a darker and stranger tone as I hear stories of tragedy out there on the waves, but no to worry as help is on the way. I walk down to the water's edge. Not a soul.
I have tried now for a long while to construct shelter from the cold rain of the coming storm. It drills through whatever walls I can manage to put up, and then the roof collapses and I lay under the wreckage for some time clutching a bottle of cheap vodka. The radio is silent now, but I am still screaming at it over the tumult of the storm. Morning comes complete with a lull in the storm and I find myself down at the water's edge. Not a soul.
I've taught myself to fish and mastered it quite well, but sadly even a master fisherman will starve if there are no fish to catch. The vodka burns in my stomach now as I impatiently sit, hunched over my fishing rod with a dead stare in my eyes. My throat is too hoarse to scream at the radio which no longer makes any noise. With an empty stomach I made my way down to the water's edge and climbed in. I cannot swim.
For hours that might have been days, but surely not weeks I was tossed about in the waves. The harshness of the sea passed me where it pleased and left me when it felt the whim. I was up. I was down. As the sun set and I blacked out I thought I had drown. To this day I am on an island. An island of solitude and righteous alcoholism.
I've tuned my radio to catch signals and frequencies, and sometimes people out there can hear me screaming. However it has to be the liquor catching up to me at times, because I often fancy that it's not always me. It is at these times that the communique takes on a darker and stranger tone as I hear stories of tragedy out there on the waves, but no to worry as help is on the way. I walk down to the water's edge. Not a soul.
I have tried now for a long while to construct shelter from the cold rain of the coming storm. It drills through whatever walls I can manage to put up, and then the roof collapses and I lay under the wreckage for some time clutching a bottle of cheap vodka. The radio is silent now, but I am still screaming at it over the tumult of the storm. Morning comes complete with a lull in the storm and I find myself down at the water's edge. Not a soul.
I've taught myself to fish and mastered it quite well, but sadly even a master fisherman will starve if there are no fish to catch. The vodka burns in my stomach now as I impatiently sit, hunched over my fishing rod with a dead stare in my eyes. My throat is too hoarse to scream at the radio which no longer makes any noise. With an empty stomach I made my way down to the water's edge and climbed in. I cannot swim.
For hours that might have been days, but surely not weeks I was tossed about in the waves. The harshness of the sea passed me where it pleased and left me when it felt the whim. I was up. I was down. As the sun set and I blacked out I thought I had drown. To this day I am on an island. An island of solitude and righteous alcoholism.
Topics:
introspect, writing, creative, insanity, neurosis, alcoholism, vodka, despair, society
English (US)