“Keep him tired; it makes him well. He’s getting better, can’t you tell?”

8♥

 

 

 

 

It’s fairly safe to say I was drunk from 2004 to 2014.

 

I’m by no means proud of that.

 

But a fact is a fact.

 

 

 

Yet, my purpose in mentioning it now isn’t to lament, per se.

 

I’ve confessed to my shame and regret regarding it in previous posts, already.

 

The aspect of it that’s been unmentioned, thus far, is this:

 

Sobering was akin to drifting upon the somnolent tides of a coma.

 

As if moving from one dream into another.

 

Rather than waking.

 

And not in purely positive ways.

 

 

 

For 10 years, I didn’t watch television, the news, et al.

 

If it wasn’t a blog or book, I payed it virtually no attention.

 

Imagine my surprise at seeing how much everything – my neighborhood, my nation, the world – changed in over what felt like a night of imbecilic self-medication.

 

 

 

While my life was reduced to whiskey and ashes, the good was not the only victim in the conflagration.

 

Myriad illusions burned away along with it.

 

And the horrors have been all too clear ever since.

 

Trigger warnings and self-abasement.

 

Original sin for some with redemption for none.

 

A religious movement in the self-delusional guise of secular humanism.

 

A death cult at the rudder of the global ship.

 

Navigators seeking the edge of the world to pitch over into oblivion with the goal of soothing a self-loathing that demands company.

 

 

 

Now, I’m still trapped, just like so many.

 

No better; no different.

 

Except that, each and every day—

 

I scratch away a bit more at the exterior wall of my cell.

 

All while, to the inmates who choose to press close to the walls they share with me and listen to my words, whispering—

 

Freedom is not as far off as they’d have us believe.

 

8♥