22 May 2013
The twitching in my left eye has plodded on aggressively for the last hour, so much so that it's blurring my vision, making me increasingly edgy with each percussive fluttering. Settling into a knot of linens, the waves of down wrapping my restless legs in ill-timed comforts, i draw myself close. I've finally slowed down long enough to take stock of my body after a week of hard drinking. I feel parched and tightly drawn, like a stocking pulled over a swollen foot. The numbness in my hands radiates through the tips of my fingers with a sting. I stare down at them surveying my fingernails. They are ragged and filthy, speckled with white marks; those kind of bruises you get when you hit your finger in just the right way. I'm exhausted but with a sharpness that keeps me from sinking into repose. Everything is magnified and severe. Too bright and too clamorous. Every sight and sound in a constant argument with my senses. I shift my eyes to the window only to snap them away again, offended by the rawness of the light. Bringing my coffee cup to my lips i see the quiver in my hand. I stop only long enough to offer it a dull appraising glance before i return my full attention back to the mug. I warily take to my first sip and nearly choke. A new thirst...something i noted the night before as the beer spilled over my tongue. My throat opened in a way that it does when one is parched. The way it does when a sudden rush of water into your gullet makes you drink with deep agony. I felt myself recoil from the recognition of this. Shifting wearily on the nest of bedding and pillows, I try not to buckle under the surge of anxiety and lingering dregs of alcohol. Before the next wave hits me I'm on my feet, in the cupboard, marrying my coffee with bourbon...and this time, I drink. Until the mug is empty and my hands are stilled.