hanging on a thin thread
sick in the stomach, i wonder why i continue to punish and fool myself that those bottles of san miguel shall make me feel better. i know, i said that i dont like having regrets, but here i am again regretting the fact that i got too shit-faced drunk again last night. its been more than a week now, I have been hanging on very thin thread of confidence. i feel almost shattered and unable to touch the ground. like broken pieces of glass, crawling my way into the deep jungle of uncertainty. a consuming fire of restlessness leading to evocative desperation. where is this place? i have lost my map. a part of myself torn and taken away. now, i struggle to find regain this lost composure. the composure shaped by years of cynicism and persistence to believe that while bliss can come from waking up to the shadow of another every morning and comfort of physical warmth, i long for the intuition of knowing when to quit and when to start. touching but not holding. tasting but never eating. longing but never hoping.
yes, innocence has been restored but only until this thin thread of hope stands and i wonder if history will repeat itself: like upset dreams, expectations run over, is there a crashing plane somewhere at my back that i am missing or a blind corner where this all leads to.
