So, shit's starting to get real. For me, at least. This is the part where I start sharing more of my life. It's a bit frightening, honestly. This chapter is short. The story in general will be slow and long. That's just the way I need to tell it. I hope you stick around. I need to get it all out.
Thank you to everyone that's reviewed and messaged me. I really do appreciate it more than you know. I'm not much of a fiction writer, but I'm trying.
Have a great weekend!
PS: this scene takes place after walking home from the club.
Assume the position.
Hunched over your desk.
Glasses on.
Bottle of whiskey.
Glass. 3 ice cubes.
The notebook you refuse to trade in for a laptop.
IPod on shuffle.
Radiohead.
I'll take a quiet life, a handshake of carbon monoxide
#2 pencil. You hate ballpoint pens.
A dark room minus one, small lamp to illuminate your words
Close your eyes.
With no alarms and no surprises
Deep breath.
No alarms and no surprises
Let your hand move on its own.
No alarms and no surprises
Let the words flow.
Please
Automatic Writing became your defense against anxiety in the eighth grade. Prior to that you simply dealt with your panic attacks and crippling depression the normal way; curled up in a corner, shaking and crying until you passed out. Your mother found you one night and lo and behold you had your first therapy appointment the next day. You'd been strongly opposed to prescription medications, thus your therapist began teaching you different techniques to fight off the episodes. She taught you a lot, too many to count in fact, but the only one that ever worked was Automatic Writing.
The gist is, you allow your subconscious to get out whatever your conscience self is unaware of or unwilling to let go of. The action has been associated with psychics and Ouija boards and though you don't believe in any of that spiritual bullshit, it's irrelevant; it works. And it's saved your life.
After a few months of using the technique and reading over what you'd read, you slowly began writing more. Consciously. This eventually became your introduction into the world of poetry and prose.
Shuffle to Jeff Buckley.
You moved to Baltimore with a motive. You wanted a new beginning. You wanted to stay under the radar.
Invisible.
When I think more than I want to think, I do things I never should do
You wanted time to yourself. Needed time for yourself.
Wake up.
Work.
Dinner.
Write.
Learn to play again.
Rinse.
Sleep.
Repeat.
I drink much more than I ought to drink, because it brings me back to you
You know by now that nothing ever goes to plan. You feel foolish for even entertaining the thought that it could.
You shouldn't care. You know don't even know her, really. She definitely doesn't know you. You shouldn't care. You made your decision. You told her in very plain English what you wanted. And she listened. You shouldn't care.
You shouldn't.
But you do.
After an hour or so you open your eyes. You've filled three pages with chicken scratch gibberish. It's nothing to be proud of. Nothing that can be put on display. But you feel better. Lighter.
The clock shows 4 am, Saturday morning.
You elect to sleep until Monday. It's easily the best decision you've made all week.
On the way to your room you swallow the last drops from the bottle.
That's the problem with drinking, I thought, as I poured myself a drink. If something bad happens you drink in an attempt to forget; if something good happens you drink in order to celebrate; and if nothing happens you drink to make something happen.
Figured I should start referencing the songs and poetry I use.
Radiohead "No Surprises"
Jeff Buckley "Lilac Wine"
Charles Bukowski "Women"
For those that don't know, "There's a Bluebird in my Heart" is a direct quote from Bukowski's poem "Bluebird." I'm a huge fan of his, so there will be many references throughout the story. I'll try to remember to source everything from now on. If I ever forget and you want to know where something came from, just message me.
Thanks!
