Whiskey

 Back, holding back, holding myself from the anonymity I dare not overlap with my melancholy. You see, my moment is a lack of it, and my grief, a blissful happiness: I cannot imagine my life without them. Without predicament and a ruthless sense of being, without momentary smile shed under infinite sadness, without the real grotesque horror of the void, the abyss, I am nothing, because I cannot fathom the entirety of the cosmos which would exist only to make me believe it is okay to be alive. I need to feel, and if feeling is sadness, and if feeling is living that sadness while knowing I would rather not be in it, while knowing I would perhaps be gone without the stain of it in my bruised lips with tainted eyes looking for a hope on a gray sky, I would rather be gone. I would rather be gone. 

Imagining the sidewalks with a wide red coat as I elude the harmony of reminiscence in the stuck train stations all so white and all so blue, so empty on the afternoon, the synchronous eclipse of the mood, and I sit there with a jacket too new to be worn, and too worn at the same time. I think time is timelessness. Disquiet it is. Deprivation. Hope. Bereavement. Moment. Time is a void. A void I can imagine in the autumn, in the way the ice cream melts so effortlessly on my hand, and in the way I can see the photographs slowly shrink away the beauty of reality with its presence. It’s a pity, really. Could you tell me how to pose the same way in a momentary bliss? Or in a shiny effervescence of corridors full of acronyms and hymns, could you really show me how to be happy enough to see it for what they are and not for what I was. Or is it more about calculating? Either way, I am not good at both. I will just stare until the capturer is gone, and I can once again, dwell in this disquiet reality, fiddling with my nothingness: I am. Not. 

Oh the brevity of my doings! I am a saudade in its horrific form. I like liking for the sake of it, and I feel not feeling for the hope of it. I am accustomed to numbness; it hears my patience, challenges my thoughts, listens to the euphemism of my dreams and acts and bewilderedly grabs the liberty of my words. The songs, the tunes, the mosaic of silences I scream every day, it hears and hears and hears. It hears me, and I can’t unhear it. The hope of trepidation is stabbed in my heart, you see, it pokes me a million times, and I stand unbothered, killing myself in the silence of it all. How could I ever? There is comfort in continuity, and you know about me dear, I have no reason to wake up. I don’t care about happiness dear; I care about being. And there you have it: a quiet disquiet hanging like nothing’s happened.

Ah, but what could you do? I like whiskey just in case. 

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