The Turn

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Another drink.

There, that makes it go fuzzy. At this point I’m good. At this point, I’m not mad at him anymore. He’s a mere mortal. He’s way beneath me; I’m floating overhead. I’m far, far above, soaring, focusing my eagle-eye vision at the world below, seeing what they can’t see. What a clear view I have.

He just wanted to have a good time, I realize. Nothing personal. I was simply not part of the equation. I smiled in my mind, the understanding spreading across me slowly, arm to arm, a glowing feeling, hot and sparkly: a firework, detonating in time with my epiphany.

Bottle’s empty, time for a new beer. Were there any, cold? But Past Me had thought ahead. Past Me knew that Future Me (Present Me to you) would be wanting an additional beer at this point. The freezer. I stood… and swayed. What a satisfying, swooping feeling. My mind in perfect control but enjoying the sense of imbalance. Beer. Cold, and I looked for an opener but I didn’t need one. Domestic beers open on a turn. No external tools needed. No obstacles. By now the taste is only bubbly and cold. No flavor. It could be club soda, but it’s not. There’s a dark abyss and I’m falling, but not in panic. Not at gravity’s whim, but at my own. Floating gently. As I see fit. Only, I can’t pick the direction. That has been determined. I’m going down, down. Far beyond the open door. The lock, another obstacle, forsaken. The key in my hand, now just an object of vague value. Heavy, useless.

My mind is heavy. If only I could remove it, put it on my night table and douse the light, then the darkness would be peaceful. But for now it is sinister, with subtle shadows given life, and manipulated by my dancing eyes.

I drink for some inner demon now, for I no longer enjoy the taste nor the feeling. My closed eyes invite the swirling, the now-sickening twisting world of colored lights, distorted faces, mocking eyes. Flashes of the past, premonitions of the future, and one more drink is all I need. Now tears find paths where before was dry land, pouring hotly from the high places, from behind closed lids.

To drink, to escape, to go back to what was, the golden days, yesteryear, nostalgia’s nostalgia. One more, but the bottles in the freezer will turn to ice and explode, surely… But that’s not my concern. Nothing is, except darkness.



{written in response to this daily post: “Retreat“}

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