I am intoxicated. Mildly, but surely.
I don’t evangelise drinking. I am not the devil that sits comfortably on the right side of your shoulder and coaxes you into letting down your defences into welcoming a spiked drink. I’m not.
But no one can deny how a drink (or two) can set your inhibitions loose and let you feel a little more relaxed than you initially intended to be. No one can deny how every emotion you feel is amplified, turned positive and coloured in rainbows highlighted with streaks of neon when you choose to take a sip out of the cocktail glass. I’m not saying a bit of alcohol always makes you feel better. I’m just saying that the odds are in your favour when you do.
I realise it’s always easier to write when your senses are dulled and when your fingers run on something other than sobriety and common sense. That when you learn to let instinct take a turn at churning out words and forming sentences, not only do you get a good laugh in the morning, you also realise a little bit more about yourself than you knew yesterday.
I’m not drunk. Nowhere near vomiting. But intoxicated? Surely. And whether or not I’ll realise I wrote this tomorrow remains an unknown mystery. Whether I’ll regret it or not? I already know for sure right now.
I’m a bag of happiness right now. Of magnified happiness, comfort and half-witted contentment. But who is to deny a fool of his joy and a dimwit of his comfort? No one. This happiness is mine, however short lived, however immoral. It is mine and I welcome it with unmatched, childish delight.
Not used to being in bed so early and trying to make sense of the negative feelings bobbing around in my head. Of course, I’m failing as usual and perhaps the only thing that can keep me from falling into the abyss of depression is an endless Glee Marathon. Okay I’m just kidding. I just feel like devouring a giant chocolate cake now.
I honestly cannot comprehend how feelings can change overnight. For example, one moment you’re insanely in love with someone and no matter which angle you view him from, he looks like a beautiful Adonis carved from marble. And suddenly, as if by some sort of sorcery, his every move disgusts you. Same goes to friendship. I wonder how friends who used to be able to share anything and everything can end up nitpicking to the very last cent and very last minute you arrive late. We used to dream of taking over the world, but now we probably couldn’t stand living in the same continent.
The topic of decomposing friendship seems to be getting a little mouldy, especially in this blog where I first wrote about a friend I missed and then did a cover wishing I could keep someone in my life and finally revisiting the exact same problem I posted about just last night. Perhaps in a life made lackluster by a striking shortage of romance, the only way I can create a moody, melodramatic persona is through the dissection of my bromances. Of which I know is less than interesting but yet is surprisingly capable of bringing as much heartache as a bad romance.
So to all those lovers and friends out there, you’re not alone in feeling as though someone has reached into your gut and punched your heart. I guess at some point, everyone has had their heart mercilessly squished by the hands of someone they willingly placed that precious muscle in. Afterall, only those you love the most have the ability to hurt you the deepest.
Or maybe not.