“..we’ve gotta keep moving on

so grateful for the moments..”

 

i’m stuck like thunder

on an old tape recorder.

all the power; all the purpose gone.

recorded as a rumbling

an echo

an afterthought.

 

what are You then

when you’re unaware your might

is fleeting

and just a depression

on cellophane;

recorded as background noise

on someone else’s tape of life.

sometimes you reach for a plug and it doesn’t fit the socket

and it’s funny

and getting ready in the mirror is a music video you know you’d look great in!

and you look fly and there are a thousand things that could happen and your body is warm and the nights roll on endlessly…

and you fall in love with your face in the mirror at odd hours when you reach your work hotel! and someone you know is there! and you go! and you meet!

 

but that was before.

Today was carrying a tv monitor, 500 Moleskins, and 10 devices to a sad meeting room; and being responsible for all.

It was seeing buildings you thought you knew; changed and gutted and now under construction; changing street patterns.

C-level badges were not working (their fault) – but you, you’re the the only one who can right it.

Right their stuff only; they’ll still ignore the things you need from them.

 

And you want to go back 6 years. 4, even.

escape.

 

but today a drink doesn’t work.

and time? it doesn’t matter.

 

And all day you, you think a drink

will help you fall

asleep

after all this, and rest.

 

no, it won’t. and it won’t ever.

you can’t feel that ever again, probably.

 

And then it’s 10pm in your 2nd bath; everything taken care of.

stressed but not overly so.

but you want that intoxication and that swirling dreaminess of liquor; for one sip of it to pass your lips and make the night something of fun or danger or meaning or significance.

 

and it’s not. and it won’t.

 

It’s not a night of that; it can’t be.

Your childish whims and drunken fancies and emotional upheaval – they’re gone.

They were nothing but your synapses.

 

Acamprosate tells you so.

It’s the harsh Christmas morning a cousin proves Santa isn’t real.

 

And so you take care of your 30 year old skin, and drink water, and sigh because…Yeah, that was.. something.. back then.

 

And you get on with your life.

And alcohol is gone.

 

It really is gone.

 

Not because you want it to be, yet.

Because the meds showed you behind the Curtain.

 

and there is nothing there.