cigarettes & whiskey

Saturday, January 16, 2010

8:10 PM

I take most of life's disappointments with sarcasm and most of its hits with painkillers. A glass of whiskey to help it down. Always thought that the lack of sleep can be easily fixed in the same manner. But my mind fucks with me in ways no alcohol or pills can ever fight. Nightmare after nightmare leaves me breathless, gasping for air and searching for your arms around me… yet in vain.

The wind outside is destroying the cold fog over the city, as my shaking fingers crave nicotine. The bell chime on the balcony is singing its soul out in an intense soundtrack to the messy musical of my insomnia-filled nights. My nostalgia is learning how to play piano, as my mind so desperately wants to mute the chaos of my melancholy. I am a prisoner of the insecurity of tomorrow. All the lights are on in a pathetic intent to keep away my recurring nightmares. I tune into a beautiful illusion of my dreams intertwined with my real life. The sleep will come; it has to.

My head is getting overwhelmed from the bedlam of too many thoughts, yet none of them are ready to be formed into black letters on the white screen in front of me. My fingers effortlessly type away the empty sensation of my blood-shot eyes staring at the black fireplace. The ice is melting in the untouched glass of whiskey, as my eyes nervously inspect the room for a lighter. Nicotine is a bitch. Somehow, I find the strength to get off the floor. Next thing I know, I find myself aimlessly driving around the sleeping city. Shaking hands searching for a cigarette get to substitute the nicotine rush for an adrenaline one, as mile markers fly passed me faster than I care to count them.

In this world full of cluster and false pretenses, sometimes I just feel like driving is the only thing that makes sense to me and keeps me sane. These fancy words cover up everyday dirt. This expensive dress hides away the bruises. French make-up covers the scars and the bags under my eyes. Some Italian perfume disguises the smell of nicotine on my fingers. This moment is nothing but a mix between the sleepless night and the surreal tomorrow, followed by a brilliant, yet unexpected conclusion to my soul-searching sooner or later.

The adrenaline rush is wearing off, as I park in front of my building. The only window with the light on is mine. I open the door to the surroundings that only seem familiar in night light. Clustered notes in shaky handwriting are pinned to the walls around me. Broken New Year resolutions, half-finished thoughts, reckless aspirations, and traveling distances to my most desired get-away corners of the world. Purple scratches of my endless proof-readings night after night, hoping to find sleep in perfection. Purple nail polish on my fingernails is destroyed by my teeth. Purple sharpie on my lap is anxiously bitten and leaking purple ink on my pale legs. The unopened envelope with the subpoena to my thoughts is laying on the glass table. Too much purple...

I give up on my resolution to quit smoking, reach for the lighter, and walk out into the dark of the night. The smoke rings are rising in the cold air, surrounding my exhausted body and the rocking chair that sustains it. I remember the last time my body felt this useless... It was a different chair on a different balcony in a life so far away from this one. Back then, I watched the edges of a torn photograph burn, as your kisses were still burning on my back, and your hands were still marked with fire on my neck, all the way to my soul. You were my best reality check, my worst enemy, my best friend, and my most accurate nightmare. Where do memories go to die?

My mind is still wandering in the darkness of my past, as I notice the first rays of the morning sun on my lap. I feel a desperate need to get out of this house. The fancy clothes and make-up are left on the floor and traded in for torn-up jeans and an old sweater, as I leave to my next destination: anywhere they sell coffee. I get cozy in the back room of the coffee house, where so many people sat before me. The Cheshire cat is napping in the sun spot on my table, next to the cup of black coffee. The wind is traveling through the open pages of my diary. The thick sweater is doing nothing to protect me from the cold I feel on the inside… I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror across the room and see a hair cut coming. Bad hair days are my specialty, but the last couple of weeks have been out-of-ordinary messy. This insomnia scenario needs to stop. I also need a healthy rush to take away my craving for those thin cancer sticks. I need something that I cannot get addicted to. I need someone who would not damage me with some delirious lifestyle or absurd indecision. Maybe, I need a dog...