A Little Alcohol is the Best

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.

The Day You Stopped Drinking

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Sometimes I think he’s just hiding. That alter-ego that you affectionately call your delinquent past cowering behind the blinding brightness you have become. Occasionally he comes out to play when the coaxing and mellow whispers prove too tempting to dispel. But most of the time, you keep him hidden under chains and shackles, under the weight of your morose, sobriety and numbness.

I take out a beer bottle, it’s cool surface kissing my lips and sending delectable chills of pleasure coursing through my skin. All that’s missing is the celebratory clinking of glass against glass — the sound that differentiates drowning of sorrows from joyous intoxication. But the clinking never comes and neither does the happiness. It’s hidden, muffled alongside the person you strangled within.

I long to see him again, for a chance to at least bid farewell the proper way. I long to see the shadows of his writhing form swaying on the dance floor, the exact motions of his moves already lost in my memory. I long to blow him a kiss, sending with him the part of my past that should have left as companion. The part that now lives in the present, agonised and longing your return.