Sorry, but I've got to go.
“Obama had been president for six days. The old timers in the twelve-step program tell you to associate the memory with something, so that’s how I remember it. The weather was just like this, even though it was November. It was sixtyish degrees. I was sitting on a stoop, having my morning beer and cigarette, and feeling disgusted with myself. I was wheezing so bad that it felt like I’d swallowed a whistle. And I had this moment of clarity. I knew I was done. So I took a couple more swigs, threw the pack of Newports into traffic, and walked over to Project Renewal on 3rd Street. I’ll be ten years sober if I can make it until November 10th. That was my day. And it still is my day. Even if I fail, I’ll remember that on that day I succeeded. And if I did it then, I can do it again.”
(Source: humansofnewyork)
Again
Run.
Avoid the puddles, avoid the cars, avoid the people.
Everything but the pavement meeting your toes.
Everything I did to run.
Just to get home. Is it here?
Yes.
And I’m still wet.
Slipping, writhing, dripping.
Why am I still wet?
Rubbing my eyes and face into the palms of my hands until I’m bone dry.
So, I run.
Prochain
C'est Fini!
Content
After so many cycles of emptying one’s chest, the mourning periods shorten considerably.
Your lies
Nothing’s up.
It’s not like that.
Lines drawn.
I don’t know.
I’m not sure.
I need time.
I hate this.
It’s not weird.
Not yet.
No.
Perhaps honesty is wasted on you.
Again
Lies. Half truths. I wasn’t having fun. I was sitting in circles feeling despondent. I was in damp clinics feeling more object than subject. I was checking emails and waiting for the phone to ask me if I was alright that day because my survey responses revealed something sinister.
I smiled and said I was “having fun”.
You never knew.
Options
Second best, at best.
