And it begins

And it begins. At first it feels good and so the second day comes oh, so easily. But then the beginning becomes the middle and the end. It starts to roll and once it is rolling it just keeps on rolling. And rolling. And rolling. And rolling.

There is that one moment, when the glass is 1/3 empty and the scolding hot water of the tub relaxes the body. Much in the same way that the liquid in the glass relaxes the brain. It is in that moment that it all seems to make sense. The lost promises that you have made to yourself. The lost time, the lost purpose, the lost friends, the lost marriage, the lost wages, but who really cares about them. But in that moment it all feels ok. It all seems to have a sense of time and purpose. But then again this is still the beginning.

Just after that one moment when everything is feeling like it has a place, you realize you have become that one thing that you promised yourself as a teenager you would never become, your father. Slaving away at a faceless corporation, a workaholic, a man of the house. You worked so hard to leave that addiction in the past. To leave it in the bottom of your genes, to walk away and never look back. You refused to be what your father wanted you to be, but you then broke your own promise. You fucking workaholic.

And then that one moment is followed by the one after it. The rolling begins and never begins to end. It’s slumber, caffeine, toil, alcohol, slumber, caffeine, toil, alcohol, slumber, caffeine, toil, alcohol, slumber, caffeine, and toil. You realize the direct correlation of toil and alcohol, and caffeine, and alcohol, and toil. The endless cycle is locked within itself. The more you toil, the more you drink, the more you need the slumber, the caffiene, the more you toil, the more you need to sleep but you don’t. You drink, you toil, you drink, you toil.

There are those who would suggest that you have a problem, an addiction. But what the fuck do they know. It isn’t the substance but the suffering that you must have. You can do without the alcohol, without the caffiene, but can you do without the toil? And if you can’t do without the toil, how can you survive without the alcohol?

And then the beginning is something you can’t remember but you find it when that haze has overtaken your eyes and your numb to the days doings. When you are dragging yourself out of the now cold water of the tub, your book tossed aside, while you drip dry in an attempt not to fall over.

And then you slumber.

And then you toil.

Slumber.

Caffiene.

Toil.

Alcohol.

Slumber.

What the fuck do they know? Can they understand the difference between your addiction to work and your addiction to alcohol? Can they feel the need to numb yourself to the world and its endless debauchery? How are you going to care? How can you let the filth of the world caress your skin, caress your mind, caress your soul? How dare they accuse you of addiction when they have no idea where the true addiction lies?

Toil. Alcohol. Caffiene. Toil. Slumber. Caffiene. Toil. Slumber. Alcohol.

It’s noon. There is no toil. The work has told you to take a day, maybe a few if needed. It’s noon. There is nothing to do. You can’t toil. You can’t slumber. You already drank your caffiene. Alcohol. It’s noon. You start to drink. MASH is on the TV. You are basking in its strange glow. It’s noon and you are shnockered. It’s noon. No more toil, no more caffiene, just slumber, just alcohol. It’s noon.

And it ends.