syd
Bluelighter
- Joined
- Feb 18, 2005
- Messages
- 273
You make it home without getting killed on the freeway and juggle the two fifths of whiskey in your arms as you try to unlock the door. Inside, there is only the silence waiting that is becoming every bit as seductive as it is sickening. You twist the cap off the first bottle in the bathroom and lift it to your mouth, staring at yourself in the mirror.
It’s been so long since you have felt anything but drunk or stoned. You want something different.
You spot your tennis shoes she had used when it was raining, not wanting to get her Gilana sandals wet, resting just outside the bathroom. Without thinking about it you recap the whiskey, and tear out of your work clothes. There is an odd sense of comfort in the tightly pulled laces of your white sneakers. Before you can change your mind you dash out the front door and are running as soon as your feet hit the asphalt.
Almost immediately your lungs scream with the knives of a thousand cigarettes and bong hits. Shards of glass tumble around inside your stomach, threatening to make their way up your throat.
You keep running.
After a few minutes your heart begins to pound inside your head, the first beads of sweat beginning to form in the late afternoon heat. Your legs begin pleading with you to stop.
You ignore it all and keep running.
After half a mile your entire body is crying out against all the months of idleness and sloth. Not just your legs, but every atrophied muscle you haven’t used is trying to slow you. The phlegm rattles around in your chest, choking you. You vomit onto the side of the road, splashing your leg and sneakers.
You keep running.
Anything worth doing is worth overdoing.
Somewhere around the one mile mark your head begins to clear and the pain that was taking over your body becomes more and more distant with each thudding step. You begin to feel elevated, exalted.
It’s been so long since you have smelled anything but smoke and liquor and stagnate bodies the various scents of spring are almost overwhelming. The smell of fresh cut grass, mulch, and purple sage by the side of the road, is so vastly different from everything you a custom to. Women who normally guide their children away from just the sight of you are smiling and waving. Other joggers, who you usually swerve at in your car, nod their approval, thinking of you as one of their on. You smile and nod and wave right back.
You keep running.
You run until your shirt is soaked completely through. You peel it off and toss it into the woods, thinking of every crappy pop song you love. You run until the sun goes down and you don’t know where you are. You run until you find yourself again. You continue running right up to your front door. All told you run for over two and a half hours straight.
Instead of the whiskey you had indented to drink, you down two liters of Gatorade normally reserved for all those dehydrated hangovers, and take a cold shower.
You even manage to eat dinner, another abnormality, and ignore the phone when your friends call from the bar. For the first time in months you go to sleep voluntarily, rather than blacking out.
The next morning you are so sore you can’t walk and have to call in sick to work, feeling confident in an excuse, which for once, isn’t the result of drugs or alcohol. Struggling to the kitchen for a whiskey soaked breakfast, you realize running will not be enough today or tomorrow or next week, but it’s nice to know you can still surprise yourself from time to time.
It’s been so long since you have felt anything but drunk or stoned. You want something different.
You spot your tennis shoes she had used when it was raining, not wanting to get her Gilana sandals wet, resting just outside the bathroom. Without thinking about it you recap the whiskey, and tear out of your work clothes. There is an odd sense of comfort in the tightly pulled laces of your white sneakers. Before you can change your mind you dash out the front door and are running as soon as your feet hit the asphalt.
Almost immediately your lungs scream with the knives of a thousand cigarettes and bong hits. Shards of glass tumble around inside your stomach, threatening to make their way up your throat.
You keep running.
After a few minutes your heart begins to pound inside your head, the first beads of sweat beginning to form in the late afternoon heat. Your legs begin pleading with you to stop.
You ignore it all and keep running.
After half a mile your entire body is crying out against all the months of idleness and sloth. Not just your legs, but every atrophied muscle you haven’t used is trying to slow you. The phlegm rattles around in your chest, choking you. You vomit onto the side of the road, splashing your leg and sneakers.
You keep running.
Anything worth doing is worth overdoing.
Somewhere around the one mile mark your head begins to clear and the pain that was taking over your body becomes more and more distant with each thudding step. You begin to feel elevated, exalted.
It’s been so long since you have smelled anything but smoke and liquor and stagnate bodies the various scents of spring are almost overwhelming. The smell of fresh cut grass, mulch, and purple sage by the side of the road, is so vastly different from everything you a custom to. Women who normally guide their children away from just the sight of you are smiling and waving. Other joggers, who you usually swerve at in your car, nod their approval, thinking of you as one of their on. You smile and nod and wave right back.
You keep running.
You run until your shirt is soaked completely through. You peel it off and toss it into the woods, thinking of every crappy pop song you love. You run until the sun goes down and you don’t know where you are. You run until you find yourself again. You continue running right up to your front door. All told you run for over two and a half hours straight.
Instead of the whiskey you had indented to drink, you down two liters of Gatorade normally reserved for all those dehydrated hangovers, and take a cold shower.
You even manage to eat dinner, another abnormality, and ignore the phone when your friends call from the bar. For the first time in months you go to sleep voluntarily, rather than blacking out.
The next morning you are so sore you can’t walk and have to call in sick to work, feeling confident in an excuse, which for once, isn’t the result of drugs or alcohol. Struggling to the kitchen for a whiskey soaked breakfast, you realize running will not be enough today or tomorrow or next week, but it’s nice to know you can still surprise yourself from time to time.
nice man i am definitely digging your stuff right now, even though i've never really had the experience of drinking a lot, but the feeling of ...like...life being flat...seems to reverberate