And then she stopped the alcohol abuse and stopped feeling like a monster.
She worked hard without getting sick.
She talked to people without treading on toes
She looked at life without getting sucked into quicksand and could see the horizon
Alcohol abuse is a nasty lecher.
But I promised I wouldn’t, so I won’t. It’s just a hypothetical.
Last night I dreamed Mechonan died. And as the war noises got closer and I could hear the hounds barking, my cousin asked me why I wasn’t sad. I told her I couldn’t be sad otherwise I’d break. The air was filling with mustard gas and we were running out of room.
Then I broke and caterwauling arched in agony, my mind disassociated and I slipped back into my childhood.
A primary school play of the sword in the stone. As the play unfolded toy props magically became real. A plastic sword changed before my eyes becoming steel.and the figure playing Arthur said he only wanted to act, he wasn’t prepared to be a real king. Which is how we all knew he was the rightful reincarnation, and we all cheered and hailed the new King Arthur of my childhood dream.
apreaching 30 is like, everyone I meet is living my lost dreams, whilst I’m still counting sheep.
The beat, the beat, the beat.
Approaching 30 is like a pocket full of posie, childhood dreams through myopic lenses and the pressure of who I should be.
Oh that I want, I demand, and it shall be mine!
Should have been mine
will it ever be mine?
inhebriation envokes thoughts of suicide, and everything that I’ve ever lost.
Oh. I. Have. Lost.
Suicide? Drugs? Limbo?
What would you choose?
The name says it all
How do you explain to an addict that your love for them is as big as their love for their gear? When it’s probably not?
I’m envious of their love.
And I wish mine was bigger.
I wish it meant enough.
To accept the impending deaths. Is near impossible.
How I wish it wasn’t so