Relief For the Tired Mind

Drunk.

Stoned.

I was both and neither for three days. I just got into this easy habit of escaping my world. One that I was greatly familiar with when I lived on the streets. My days got shockingly pale and lifeless, low energy, just an all around gray day. What could perk it up? A toke off my Roscoe and a bottle of wine. After my walk I stopped at the liquor store and bought bottles of wine, bringing them upstairs and then proceeded to fuck myself up royally.

I got blasted, until I passed out. Woke up, ate, got blasted again. In keeping with this frequency of sleep, drink, smoke and eating, I melted three days. Melted them down like candle wax, and at the end of them, found that I missed the Mental health appointment at Metropolitan Hospital. I'll have to go and correct that. I have to do something about it. Charliqua will have kittens when she hears that I didn't go to it. Because of my medical paperwork, they have given me a two month 'extension'. I don't know what that means but I got two months worth of it.

It's hard to describe the Brown World, or maybe it's the Red World but it is the slow moving, place in my mind where I am free to think and react without certain mental stimulus invading and making me depressed. This is important. There are a million reasons why I am depressed, legitimate reasons, but if I dwell on them too long, or too generally, I slip into extreme depression.

I'm not happy now. I'm cast adrift. Lonely and tired. I don't know what I want to do. How I want to do. I just exist. I have very little reason to do anything else.

So I face another dead day. I'm out of wine, but I do have weed. So I took my roscoe into the bathroom this morning and lit up a tree. Then I sat down and tried to write. Couldn't. I crawled into bed and closed my eyes. Today I will not walk. Today I will not do anything. I will not drink and I will stop smoking and come back to the Real World.

Or so I said to myself. Yeah, I'm always talking to myself. I'm always reasoning things out. Like the fact that I ran out of NALTREXONE, and just stopped taking them. Now I'm shopping at Duane Reade, pick up some things to eat for a few days, and cross by the liquor store, and against my better judgment, stroll in. I skip the wine today and go straight to the top shelf: Jack Daniels. Great. I got just enough to enter into the Brown World. A pint, even though every cell in my body was screaming QUART.

I hit the homestead, the space pod, and rested my groceries on the floor. Then I stripped, played music, stocked my shelves, and began drink scotch and water. I get behind the computer and OBSIDIAN gives me work to do. The SHOUT OUT newsletter. I work on it. I also feel the ability to write email, and this blog. I feel something other than deep and dark. I have emotions. I have feelings. I can be hurt.

I watch the end of the day crawl towards me. Today was a nice day. It seemed almost spring- time. I wasn't out there long, but the little that I was out there seemed nice. I should have walked today, but I will most likely do it tomorrow. All the way down to Columbus Circle, walk the circle and then back up again. A trek to be sure. Every day. I'm going to try to do it every day. That is a good form of exercise from someone that doesn't like to do anything other than eat and sit in a chair and write....

Hmmmm

I didn't think of that.
I feel so rudderless. I have no goals, no desires. I have nothing that I can imagine that I can work towards, that I can get near to....and then it dawned on me. I'm a fucking writer. That's why I have nothing as a goal, and I'm floating listless in the sea. I'M A WRITER!! I write for a living. I write for life. I write. I'm a writer. That's what I do. That's why when I'm not writing I feel lost. I have to find something to write to. Maybe I can make a career out of writing. Who knows? I would like that if I can work towards it!

I am a writer. Write about sex, write about death, write about sorrow, write about me. I need to write. I think this as I settle into the Brown World. Easy, like a stone hitting the bottom of the ocean. I make dinner, three times. A little here, a little there, until I'm full. I'm a little fucked up. I talk to BB on IM until tired, then hit the hay. Saying goodbye to the world for an hour. When I get up, it was back to business as usual, drinking and toking. Hey, what the fuck?

A writer can also drink too you know. Why do the poets and writers have high incidences of alcoholism and suicide? Makes you wonder, huh?

I've slept well, so I'll be up late tonight, watching the clock tick. Thinking what I should be doing next. What is the next goal that I will accept as worthy of me.

Probably get a job, that's a good goal.

85,000 jobs lost last month in the US. Keep dreaming.

Hobobob