11/3/23 Dry days make for clean collections of drama-less minutes, but save for money and peaceful nights, I'm not seeing the results of this abstinence. The bridges burned with liquid flames still lay in strewn ruins, revealing the bleak abysses they once spanned across. Daytime lights a field of post war disaster, reminding me again why I often chose to dim my days with the blinders of heavy bottles. What remains here for me now is a goliath mess of reparations and heavy labor to clear away the rotting death that’s augmented in my self-imposed, liquid-induced coma. These sights and swellings of emotion are scarcely the landscape I had wished to find when I put down my last glass of smiling poison, but they are anything but surprising to behold. One lone and weakened man (both in body and spirit) stands amidst the smokey battlefield of countless waves of lost incursions of genius strategy and courage. In the end, it’s best not to wage war against a god. An immortal foe whose only reliable quality is returning to the table to tauntingly replay our previous duel again. It seems surrender truly is the wisest of strategies when the shadow of truth is seen from beneath the clouds of self injurious, trigger-happy, hard-headedness. Why keep returning to fight once more when the battle has been rigged from the very beginning? Now all I have to my resources are the burned debris of years of fruitless destruction; I stand here to clear the mammoth mess a stone at a time. The feat is daunting, but also the only assured promise of seeing the sun rise tomorrow on a slightly less cluttered scene than that birthed of my career of battle failures.
