Someone once told me that poets and writers are like alcoholics, I didn’t quite get what they ment by that. But now I get it, I get what they said, I get why they said it.
An alcoholic needs a bottle, a writer needs a pen and a paper, an alcoholic takes a few sips, he starts to forget, a writer writes a few words he starts to float. After a few sentences, a few verses he starts to slip, drift into dizziness. Not aware of his surroundings he digs deep, cutting open old wounds for the sake of it.
He forgets who he is, where he is and let’s the words fill the pages, like he’s drunk and doesn’t give a fuck what rolls off of his lips.
He doesn’t know how, he does it, it just happens, it’s the things he needs to get off his chest, afraid it might be too much to hold in, afraid it might end up choking him.
He takes things as simple as the sky, he spins them around and out of perspective, he makes something entirely odd out of it, how? You ask,well he’s drunk to be honest he doesn’t know himself, so he says that it’s nothing and crumples the piece of paper up tossing it in the bin, like an alcoholic does his senses.
Transported, a traveller of time, God knows how far he’s been, just sitting at his desk surfing through events in his mind.
If his thoughts allow, he might even get some sleep tonight.-H