The Night I Lost My Head

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Coming back to earth is an interesting experience.

I stood on a bottle, it slipped from under my foot, and the concrete gave me a thunderous uppercut. I’d say I just got run over by a truck, but not even Big Rigg Hendricks could hit like this.

Get up, dust off, keep drinking. I’m not going home just because of this shit.

The following days were like a hangover that just wouldn’t end. Whatever planet is beyond pain, that’s where I was. Once the fog finally lifted, I was left with a nice scar on my chin as a reminder of what can happen.

I couldn’t feel my fucking face, but I’ve never felt more alive than I did in that moment.

Easy Like Sunday Morning

I throw myself out of a taxi, just in time for my insides to throw themselves out onto the pavement. I sit marinating in the sun beside the viscous pile of sick for what feels like days, paralysed in my own stupor.

Eventually I regroup enough to stagger behind a building and piss out some poisons, and then wander homeward bound by foot.

Guilty.

I’m a tourist, I’m a wreck, I’m a vomit-green transparency, lighting up a cigarette.

Postcards of Persuasion

I knew it couldn’t last.

She swept towards me, stopping me in a doorway, already knowing my name and having formed a mythology in her mind. Later, seemingly unsatisfied with my consistent lack of eye contact, she pushed my hair out of my eyes, and held my face in place so that my gaze couldn’t escape hers. I was spellbound.

She was a black celebration, in dress, shoes and fingernails, contrasting starkly with her golden hair and flawless porcelain skin. A dark jewel hung from a pendant between her breasts, drawing attention to a form that can only be described as other-worldly. We’ve met for a second time, a result of mutual intrigue. She charms further with her champagne’d sway.

We ring in the new year with a kiss. We shouldn’t be doing this. She tells me in the sober morning that I look like a pirate. I want to be a pirate.

I’m enveloped thickly in J&B as I approach her house late on a steamy February evening. Unable to sleep, intimidated by the impossible beauty of her slumbering shape beside me, I depart just before sunrise, hot wind blowing away the last remnants of the dream on a lengthy walk home.

I knew I couldn’t last.

Wasted Days

It’s been a few hours between drinks, but 630-odd days between blogs. During this time, I’ve learnt more about myself and others than I ever thought possible. I’ve drank, smoked and fucked with a fervour, a filth and a fury of which I’d only previously dreamed. I’ve spilt blood, sweat, tears and drinks, in search of meaning and in search of truth. I feel like a better man, more realised, whole and aware of myself than ever before, but a single thought still plagues me – I thought I would be more than this.

My search for enlightenment has led me to question my achievements and my success in life, my value as a person, and my contribution to the lives of others. What is achievement? What is success? Is it how much money I have in the bank? Is it being a good drinker? Is it being “good in bed”? Is it being a good conversationalist? Everyone wants their life and their existence to have purpose and meaning, but as long as you are happy, does it really matter if you’re really “making a difference” to the lives of others, or how others perceive you, or is that just all ego-driven and ego-boosting bullshit? Well, I’ll be honest, I’m not happy. I’m brimming with dissatisfaction, disaffection and unfocussed rage, feeling bored, whored, tired and ignored. I feel like I could – I should – be doing more with, giving more and getting more from the life I’ve been given. The jealous, petty, tempestuous, selfish only child in me causes me to crave more attention, love and adoration than I’m getting, and my ego feels disappointed that the vessel in which it is encased is not doing anything especially worthy of gaining such accolades from others on a consistent basis. I feel like a fertile and brilliant mind and body are going to waste while getting wasted, trapped in a repetitive cycle. It’s my own doing, yet knowing that doesn’t help me escape the trap.

Maybe I am successful. Maybe what I do is just “what I do”, and maybe I do it well, and should keep doing it. Maybe there is no material result or tangible end game to be achieved. Maybe it’s not all a video game, building from one level to the next. Maybe everything is just liquid, ebbing and flowing up and down, in and out like the tide, never actually meant to accumulate in size. Maybe this is all there is. Maybe everything is temporary, never permanent.

Maybe I just don’t know. Maybe my search has only just begun.