Dysfunctional Romance

Ghost in the wind

You know my name, but you've never seen my face.

You don't know where I am, but I know where you are.

There are things that happen in this world.

Some good and some bad.

There's never really been a balance between the two.

At least none that I've ever come across.

Perhaps its due to my lack of understanding.

Or simply thanks to my so-called way of living.

I recall very few moments in my life, where things seemed normal.

Hah. What is normal?

I don't think I know.

The answer always finds a way to evade me.

I suppose, how things are could be considered a type of normal.

For me anyways.

Of course, one thing I know I've failed to mention.

The hidden door.

A pathway between the balance.

The silent moments.

Shades of gray.

Dark nights, which continue to remind me of the past.

Nights like tonight, when I've drunk myself into a stupor.

And begin reminiscing over all the things I wish I couldn't remember.

Scoffing aloud, I stare in a blank daze into my drink, the amber colored liquid sloshing against the chunk of ice that floats in the alcoholic sea. Sitting like an iceberg, slowly melting into the chemicals surrounding it, being consumed, losing its original form, fading away until there's nothing left but the memory it once existed. Soon, even that memory will begin to fade, because in the end, once something lesser has been consumed by a greater force, it can never go back into being what it was.

Its literally quite impossible.

How do I know this?

Because I'm the iceberg and my life is the alcohol which is constantly wearing me down. Everything that I am, everything that I was made to be.... slowly being consumed by the world around me.... a disaster waiting to happen.

I already know, there's nothing left for me in this world.

I've made peace with what happened.

I accept my fate.

Okay, that was a lie.

At least, one of those three is a lie and the remaining two, are true. Which is which? I often times find myself questioning that as well.

As I slightly tip the glass and press it against my lips, the liquid burning my tongue and throat as I gulp it down, the slight pain reminding me that I am in fact still alive. I often times find myself questioning that even more than anything else.