I was asked yesterday if I was an alcoholic. I stood and stared blankly while I rolled the thought around. I recall last Thursday’s trash pick up. Among the contents were two wine bottles, a six pack’s worth of beer bottles, and a rather intimidating empty of Jack Daniel’s container. My best answer to the inquiry was a cynical “Probably.”
I’ve been sober since Saturday and I intend to keep it that way for a couple weeks.
I get little whispers in my head. The tell me to do things. Make some art, write a blog, finish that book. I resist them. I’m not sure why. There’s a distorted logic in there that suggests none of it is worth it. None of the effort invested will see a return, monetarily or otherwise, so why do it. Cynical, fatalistic, and defeatist, ain’t none of them words good when describing one’s self.
I get confused. I go to work and when I am at work I have a dandy old time. I tell jokes, I harass my coworkers, and I behave like an oafish goof. This admitted, I never want to go to work, I always want to stay home and do nothing. The gravity of my motivations pulls me towards that towards a solitary miserable unaccomplished state. Why? Damned if I know or I’ll ever know. It’s one of my damnedable quirks.
I have a string of days off fast approaching. I am formulating that I will do some art, some poetry, some book junk. And I will. It’s a weird low key inspiration that compels me to do so. It seems to be, when I have nothing to gain, then I am at my most honest.