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To Drink is to Be…

The cushion is comfortable, almost enough to make me go to sleep.  I am dozing, eyes half closed, my lids drooping farther and farther down.  I can hear the air whistling in and out of my nose, brushing by clumps of dried mucous and giving me barely enough air to breathe.  I try to swallow, but the back of my throat is too dry to even hitch, let alone give me liquid satiation.

The overhead ceiling fan clicks its blades to and fro, telling me a story of wind in the corners and sending dust to check on me to make certain I still am alive.  My feet feel glued to the floor, I try to shift my position and nothing wants to move.  My arms weigh tons, as if they are made of steel and I am too weak to lift them.

The demon inside has taken hold of me, forcing me into the amber embrace again.  Only when I reach for the glass can I move, only when I take a drink can I be quenched.  Feeling the hot draining down my throat both agitates and gratifies me.  I need this sensation.  I need this release.  I want to let go.  I want to only be free in the moment between me and the bottle.

The ice clinks, melting in the glass, sloshing sounds come to my ears and the saliva starts to run in my mouth.  I can taste the bliss in the air.  I reach out, grasp the glass, and twist my hand around the glistening cylinder.  The sweat from the cool of the drink slickens my hand.  I bring my hand to my mouth and suck off the moisture, teasing myself with the wet.

I reach back out, and pick up the glass.  Touching my lips with the brim, I lick the beads from the top of the glass.  I inhale the abhorrent odor, hating it and relishing in it.  Basking in the glorious ambience of the thing I am about to become.

Tilting the glass, I exist in the drink, living within the need.  Being, because of the taste.  Getting lost in lapping up the sour.  Riding the wave of wonderful flavor, hating the rage in my head that yells at me to stop.  Nothing is this good, nothing can stop this, nothing, nothing, nothing.

I slam the glass down on the table, drained of its purpose.  I reach inside, and pick up the final half melted ice cube.  I suck on the square through my fingers, living within the final drops that will take my away from this consciousness.  Slipping beneath, I am gone, a single drop of water, straining to be in a sea of better things.

Straining to live, straining……to…


One Comment
  1. Wow.
    You’ve captured it.
    That love/hate relationship we have with our demon self.
    This is really, really, excellent writing.

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