Infinite Wisdom
Thump, thump, thump, the incessant chatter of his heart
persistently reminded him of his mortality as he lay in bed. His thoughts
constantly reminded him of the trauma, his heart constantly reminded him of his
imprisonment. As he tossed and turned in his bed he concluded that sleep would
remain elusive for tonight, so he sat up and reached for the light on his
bedside table. Beside the light rested a bottle of Jack Daniels, the usual
solace for a restless night. He grabbed the bottle and made his way to the
kitchen, rubbing his eyes with his free hand. Once in the kitchen he reached
for the cupboard which stored his glasses for occasions such as these. He began
to pour the alcohol, watching it pour like a waterfall; seeking escape yet
finding imprisonment.
He regularly sought alcohol when his problems became
unbearable, when his heart wouldn’t stop beating and his head wouldn’t stop
talking. Although, and he realized this every time yet never changed, solace in
alcohol is akin to entering the boxing ring against Mike Tyson with your hands
shackled behind you. It never solves the problems, only revitalizes them and
disables you from properly solving them. In fact, it would seem, alcohol only
exasperated his problems. But his culture hadn’t equipped him with any other tools;
there weren’t any resources within his reach.
There was a liquor store in every city, though.
As his glass reached its capacity he hastily moved it
towards his mouth and poured the first burning sip down his esophagus. When it
reached his stomach he felt his entire body revile at the foul liquid, but his
mind forced him to continue pouring it down. Sip after sip he continued to pour
it down until his glass was empty and once his glass was empty he would refill
it. Once he was pleasingly intoxicated he stumbled to his front door,
haphazardly threw on his shoes and opened the door. Into the night he went, a
lonely and troubled man who would wander with his thoughts until he passed out.
As soon as he started the walk the thoughts bombarded him.
Everything that ever traumatized him seemed to strike him all at once in an
overwhelming whirlwind of assault. As the thoughts began to bombard him he
began to talk to himself, telling himself he was a failure and all he was good
for was how much alcohol he could consume before becoming intoxicated.
When he was young his mother had abandoned him, she was a
young female, perhaps too young, and she became overwhelmed by the responsibility
of a child. She had walked out one night and never returned. His father,
shortly thereafter, became depressed, seeking solace in alcohol. All his
parents had instilled in him was that you can run away from your problems, and
if that doesn’t work, you can numb them until they shut up. So here he was, the
lonely man who never had a loving parent, who stumbled through the streets at
night crying and talking to himself.
Now, he was sitting outside a local gas station, his head
spinning, and a cigarette dangling from his mouth. In his head, an entire army
of thought seeking to demolish him from the inside out, as he was staring down
at the concrete with tears streaming down his face he overheard a person
walking near-by, heard them drop something. He didn’t see the person because he
had looked up too late but he saw what they had dropped: a journal. He stumbled
towards it, tossing his cigarette mid-way, and picked it up. It was empty.
He began to stumble towards his house; it would seem sleep
was now not so elusive because now all he wanted was to rest his head on his
pillow. As he reached his front door, he sluggishly twisted the handle and
opened it, stumbling into the entrance of his home and stripping his shoes off.
Down the hall and through the door, now he was in his room. The world around
him was spinning, as though he himself had a rotational axis and an orbit. He
crashed down onto his bed, unable to even remove his clothing before he passed out.
He awoke dizzy and disoriented. He turned his head and saw a
blue notebook lying on his bedside table where his alcohol usually rested. He
must have put it there before he passed out. As well, he felt something in his
pocket. He reached into his left jean pocket and extracted a blue ball-point pen.
He couldn’t remember how it had found his pocket but it had.
A year later our troubled protagonist was now fitter than he
had ever been in his life and had a steady relationship with a woman who
fulfilled every desire he had ever had, she comforted him and assisted him
whenever he needed it and he would do the same for her. They became a symbiotic
force of affection, the power of love had seized him and he willingly allowed
it to. He had found a job working at the local newspaper, writing all sorts of
articles but he particularly focused on self-help.
That morning he had awoken dazed and disoriented he began a
habit that eventually persisted through-out his life. When he extracted the pen
from his pocket he began to journal. Initially, it was just a pass-time; but
eventually it became such a fundamental habit that when he felt the urge to
intoxicate himself, he would resort to the pen and paper. The pen was the tool
of infinite wisdom, although it summoned all his demons it also equipped him
with his suit of armor and sword. They do say the pen is mightier than the
sword; perhaps it is also more powerful than any drug.
No comments:
Post a Comment