I saw myself one morning, turning under a dying willow in a magical Dance that had the birds joining in and all the beasts of all the jungles singing the song I danced to. Tonight, I drink alone to songs titled, “That’s when I reach for my revolver”. I find it somehow fitting that I found God in hell and the Devil in heaven.
Then, after a bit, we gave up on all the good I imagined in the world and settled for an empty glass of whiskey. So, for all the bluster, I end up mostly dead and alone – unable to distinguish between the stories I made up and the stories I lived.
There’s a violence to sadness that keeps a person engaged. They watch sidelined as their life disappoints in re-run misery. I ran a marathon to be with most of them, and I’m only sad, because, what if – just, what if – I was supposed to win, rather than simply finish? Were all those asshole speakers wrong all the time? Cock-suckers. I never really believed them anyways.