I swallowed another sip of beer just after I decided to quit drinking. I swallowed another sip of beer to stop to start to keep on thinking. It changes the cadence. It changes the beat. The feelings: they mellow. The anxiety: it’s weakened. I swallow another sip of beer and think about my body softening. I think about the increasing pace of aging. I think about skin drying and wrinkling and falling off of fragile breaking bones. I think about my father and my future and my kids potential human beings depending on me. Depending on me? Depending on me while I depend on an end-of-day drink.
But it’s not all that tragic. It’s not that severe. Just a just-post-noon drink or seven to slow panicking thinking to slow scattered movements little bird-like twitches amounting to inaction. Amounting to still waiting still wanting. Amounting to sum nothings. This is me and this is my hobby it is my current and it is my forward-movement: moving forward at the pace of a slowly ticking clock. This is me drinking at just post-noon in the middle of a long-weekend-placed Saturday and listening to music and feeling the inevitable tragedy of aging too young of aging too intoxicated of exchanging growth opportunities for slight simplicities such selfish exit ramps.
What else is out there? I wouldn’t know. What else is out there? The answer’s at the bottom of a bottle. Nothing more nothing more nothing more but a single solemn drop. Nothing more nothing more but some sun and some suffering and a whole big world containing infinite infinities. Nothing more than that.