Two Cans

shut up!

And the two beer cans sat on the desk, and they made him cry, because he knew so well how he felt when he drank, and why he drank when he felt this way. And the cans spoke to him and they told him that.

When he first got depressed he stayed home. Jobless, he stayed indoors and hid. Eventually, over time, he’d find a way to evoke some happiness in his life. He stood outside his door and the sun shone. He felt happy again. He found a job, gleefully … giddily part-time, and when he drank, it was socially. So much so, that one night, he met Cleo, and Cleo, the French exchange student, with dark Auburn hair and a frame so slight she seemed to hang weightless in the air, she became his girlfriend.
Long days were spent with her; long days and long nights. Every morning the summer sun gatecrashed his bedroom. The sheets were white and perfumed everything glowed like a blurred halo. Happiness was his summer walks with Cleo; it was the way she smiled when she looked at him. She saw a faraway sadness in his eyes, a past that had strengthened him, had lent romance to their summer affair. And to him sadness fell ever more into the distance, like the first chapter of a novel you’ve almost finished.
He knew she would leave, but felt invincible. He would stand, waving stoically, as her ship sailed away, and his broad shoulders would carry those bittersweet poetic notions that it was better to have loved and lost, and all that jazz.
When Cleo left, his heart emptied like a cracked glass. He fought against it, but his soul dripped back into the empty days he had felt before. Slowly, his gloom filled every thought. Previously his grand melancholy was amateur; it was something stinging, almost engaging by the very nature that it was new to him. This time he wore it like a grey, old, familiar coat of chains. The realisation that it would always be waiting for him – he could struggle, for a time, to keep his head out of the water, but would eventually sink back in. He slowly drifted into unemployment (the dole, more lucrative, but some how less valuable, than his part time job), and at first, like before, he hid beneath the cover of daytime television, his mobile left on silent. But the aching familiarity of it struck his weary soul like a nightmare that stays with you past noon. So he ran.
He would lie on, faking sleep – even to himself, in that drifting slumber – until late in the day. The darkening evenings full of nothing to do, were like chewing ash. But he’d search sickeningly for a light somewhere in the tunnel – a way to escape. He met a friend in town one rainy afternoon, a pocket full of scratcher money, and drank and laughed heartily in a broken down pub. Suddenly the grey concrete outside looked brighter; the burnished wood and blackened upholstery of the dingy tavern, became romantic; the bar flies were revellers. Reprieve, freedom, could be sought in the comfort of his buddies and compadres. But soon he discovered they were not lost to the same sweaty palms of desperation; to them spontaneity could not be replaced with repetition. Treats, too often, soon became habits.
When he could not have his friends, he could still find solace in the company of pints. When the money ran thin, pints became cans. Burnished upholstery and blackened leather were now the blighted familiarity of his home. His favourite songs, soundtracks to his burgeoning alcoholism. And where once he hid, he tried to seek escape, by emptying cans of beer where once he played with his childhood toys, in the bedroom he had forever slept, and where the sheets were no longer white, but stained with the greyness of his lost days.
And then one day, the two empty beer cans sat on his desk, and they made him cry.

sitout

very now!

magicass

shut up! wrote: »

And the two beer cans sat on the desk, and they made him cry, because he knew so well how he felt when he drank, and why he drank when he felt this way. And the cans spoke to him and they told him that.

When he first got depressed he stayed home. Jobless, he stayed indoors and hid. Eventually, over time, he’d find a way to evoke some happiness in his life. He stood outside his door and the sun shone. He felt happy again. He found a job, gleefully … giddily part-time, and when he drank, it was socially. So much so, that one night, he met Cleo, and Cleo, the French exchange student, with dark Auburn hair and a frame so slight she seemed to hang weightless in the air, she became his girlfriend.
Long days were spent with her; long days and long nights. Every morning the summer sun gatecrashed his bedroom. The sheets were white and perfumed everything glowed like a blurred halo. Happiness was his summer walks with Cleo; it was the way she smiled when she looked at him. She saw a faraway sadness in his eyes, a past that had strengthened him, had lent romance to their summer affair. And to him sadness fell ever more into the distance, like the first chapter of a novel you’ve almost finished.
He knew she would leave, but felt invincible. He would stand, waving stoically, as her ship sailed away, and his broad shoulders would carry those bittersweet poetic notions that it was better to have loved and lost, and all that jazz.
When Cleo left, his heart emptied like a cracked glass. He fought against it, but his soul dripped back into the empty days he had felt before. Slowly, his gloom filled every thought. Previously his grand melancholy was amateur; it was something stinging, almost engaging by the very nature that it was new to him. This time he wore it like a grey, old, familiar coat of chains. The realisation that it would always be waiting for him – he could struggle, for a time, to keep his head out of the water, but would eventually sink back in. He slowly drifted into unemployment (the dole, more lucrative, but some how less valuable, than his part time job), and at first, like before, he hid beneath the cover of daytime television, his mobile left on silent. But the aching familiarity of it struck his weary soul like a nightmare that stays with you past noon. So he ran.
He would lie on, faking sleep – even to himself, in that drifting slumber – until late in the day. The darkening evenings full of nothing to do, were like chewing ash. But he’d search sickeningly for a light somewhere in the tunnel – a way to escape. He met a friend in town one rainy afternoon, a pocket full of scratcher money, and drank and laughed heartily in a broken down pub. Suddenly the grey concrete outside looked brighter; the burnished wood and blackened upholstery of the dingy tavern, became romantic; the bar flies were revellers. Reprieve, freedom, could be sought in the comfort of his buddies and compadres. But soon he discovered they were not lost to the same sweaty palms of desperation; to them spontaneity could not be replaced with repetition. Treats, too often, soon became habits.
When he could not have his friends, he could still find solace in the company of pints. When the money ran thin, pints became cans. Burnished upholstery and blackened leather were now the blighted familiarity of his home. His favourite songs, soundtracks to his burgeoning alcoholism. And where once he hid, he tried to seek escape, by emptying cans of beer where once he played with his childhood toys, in the bedroom he had forever slept, and where the sheets were no longer white, but stained with the greyness of his lost days.
And then one day, the two empty beer cans sat on his desk, and they made him cry.

10 out of 10

busted flush

shut up! wrote: »

Treats, too often, soon became habits.

This my friend, is a marvelous way to describe the descending fall into addiction. Something i know only too well.:(. A pretty way to talk about a dark subject.
busted

Robin_Blinds

makes me wanna cry and **** at the same time!


where are the tissues?

sitout

Robin_Blinds wrote: »

makes me wanna cry and **** at the same time!


where are the tissues?

lmfo:D