i know that even as wll as i could hold my liquor, how well i could function on the stuff, no matter how well i could bounce back the next day, i can not do the things i want, drunk. i can not continue to believe that alcohol makes me better at anything, it doesn't. i can not believe that my getting drunk doesn't matter to anyone other than me, it does. i can not allow myself the weakness of this affliction, when there's so much fucking fun to be had. to rot away my feeble brain, to decay in my own skin, to continue to deny that there is a world around me, nor that i have no place in it, is useless. i must set my feet in the right place and then, stand firm. deny the power of this for nothing is more powerful than human will. i must keep going when i feel the need to lie down. i must prevail as i have always prevailed, the only thing i have to fear is inaction. hope is a fleeting thing. a frail, slight, and elusive being, with a touch poisonous to the unwilling. the dismal, the despondant, the derelict. it is as a contagent. it can spread with the fury of a plague, and it can be quashed by the shadow of a cloud. it has the power of God in it, and the lucidity of madness, though at times the wisp of a dove's wing over a brow is the only sign of it's arrival, or sadly enough, it's departure. and for my times left on this earth, with the clarity i had for so long reviled, i will hope
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