litlover
10-07-2005, 10:34 AM
Hungover.
A threatening word.
Hungover what? An abyss seething with liquefied hopes? A chasm cleft between sanity and despair? A void of abandoned aspiration?
A mess of fear; real and imagined. I speak not of the Sunday morning throbber dispelled with Aspirin and fresh air but an abiding, unspecified angst, every nerve-end aquiver. The smallest sound clangouring in a brittle brain whose cells sizzle and burn. Immobile, impossible. Concentration a forgotten gift. Shot eyes afraid to focus on another human without the fierce courage distilled in a bottle. A sly cowardice grips and crushes the backbone you kid yourself still exists. Your body reneges. The knowledge of your fall is on the lips of friend and foe, while your own sullied lips drip the weasel words of false remorse.
Hungover.
No-one left to drag you from the fearful edge. When, in rare lucidity, YOU are the only 'reality'; your's the only insight. Longing to caution others on the road to hell, knowing they will not heed; not you, who cannot halt your own slide into oblivion. So the grey turns to black, and the black shrouds any thought of escape from fluid purgatory.
Hungover.
Nowhere to go, but down. No hope of rising until scraping the bottom. There, if you're among the few, some dregs may remain of your former self. Some power may enwrap and guide you, weary as you are, through visions of awful night which assail you.
Hungover.
Make no mistake. The journey down is but a beginning. The road back is beset wth traps. You knew, yes you did, even as it happened. Friends, family, respect and reputation are no longer yours. Some - you may regain. The rest? Let it go. Forget it, if you can. The bleak horizon will brighten; the storm of past days will settle. They will quell to unquiet memory and you WILL move on; strong in the knowledge of weakness.
A threatening word.
Hungover what? An abyss seething with liquefied hopes? A chasm cleft between sanity and despair? A void of abandoned aspiration?
A mess of fear; real and imagined. I speak not of the Sunday morning throbber dispelled with Aspirin and fresh air but an abiding, unspecified angst, every nerve-end aquiver. The smallest sound clangouring in a brittle brain whose cells sizzle and burn. Immobile, impossible. Concentration a forgotten gift. Shot eyes afraid to focus on another human without the fierce courage distilled in a bottle. A sly cowardice grips and crushes the backbone you kid yourself still exists. Your body reneges. The knowledge of your fall is on the lips of friend and foe, while your own sullied lips drip the weasel words of false remorse.
Hungover.
No-one left to drag you from the fearful edge. When, in rare lucidity, YOU are the only 'reality'; your's the only insight. Longing to caution others on the road to hell, knowing they will not heed; not you, who cannot halt your own slide into oblivion. So the grey turns to black, and the black shrouds any thought of escape from fluid purgatory.
Hungover.
Nowhere to go, but down. No hope of rising until scraping the bottom. There, if you're among the few, some dregs may remain of your former self. Some power may enwrap and guide you, weary as you are, through visions of awful night which assail you.
Hungover.
Make no mistake. The journey down is but a beginning. The road back is beset wth traps. You knew, yes you did, even as it happened. Friends, family, respect and reputation are no longer yours. Some - you may regain. The rest? Let it go. Forget it, if you can. The bleak horizon will brighten; the storm of past days will settle. They will quell to unquiet memory and you WILL move on; strong in the knowledge of weakness.