“…I felt like destroying something beautiful…”
I pour myself a meagre amount of ginger coloured whisky into a small glass. I fill it with ice so the two inches at the bottom magically turn into a nearly full glass of drink. I down it. I refill it until the half litre bottle of Jameson I just bought with a day’s worth of salary is half empty. With any other liquor I’d be drooling on the floor trying to crawl myself into bed. With whisky the effects are different. I feel awakened and warm. Warm inside; warm like when someone gives you a hug kind of warm and you never want to detach your arms and let go. The kind of warm only a non-human entity can provide and you know what, Homes, sometimes that’s the best kind.
So I’m sitting here on a Saturday night with not much more than a new city I’ve acquainted myself as best I can in the last 72 hours, in circumstances less than ideal, and trying to find a way back to order. It occurs to me that finding a way back to a place where you feel safe and comfortable is a difficult challenge when you’re superglued into that period where it all feels like the infinite abyss. That is, the period defined in Garden State as the 20’s where you have no home and absolutely no clue where you can find Home again.
When natural order and human nature suggests that finding a forever spouse and making beautiful babies to invest all your love, attention, and energy into seems natural, to me it seems like it would be the biggest cop out ever. It would be the extreme lie of all the lies I have ever uttered to myself in moments of despair, desperation, and momentary euphoria. I kind of know those things would bring me experiences that resemble serenity and calm much more than my search for temporary bliss but they are wrong for me. They feel like trying on a pair of ill fitted jeans in a cut, fit, and flare that my god-given body could simply just not pull off. So i refute. I run. Essentially, I want to be a major disappointment to myself and others around me rather than to run around in a pair of ill-fitted jeans.
It feels like a battle against a society and a world order much bigger than I can ever stand up against. So I keep moving my legs to places and people that have no connection and no history in my pursuit to find some purpose. More often than not, I end up most comfortable at the end of a day’s journey alone in my bed, alone on my couch, standing on a rooftop, or looking out the street window of my best mate’s bar with a glass in my hand and I feel okay. The drink is a liquid mix of companion and comfort and as I sit here writing I wonder if that is something to worry about.
When people I grew up with are buying houses and sharing bank accounts I am still in the middle of nowhere with no path in sight.
So I end up pouring the last remnants of that Jameson bottle over 4 cubes of ice as I sit by a brightly lit window that reflects the world outside full of people hustling and bustling with purpose, with rhythm, with prams of chubby toddlers, with smiles on their faces. I always wonder if my smile and my happiness mirrors their own.
Am I alright? Is this happiness?
I down the drink. I find sleep and tomorrow I’ll ask myself again.
“…you met me at a very strange time in my life…”