the trouble with being me

As the last drops in the mug are over and done with, you find yourself back at that familiar place. You circle your fingers around the rim. In the quiet, the questions come back again.

Long before, you would have dwelled, analyzed, wondered, dissected, and more often than not, self-destructed.

In a long chorus of groans and moans, you would have convinced yourself that there was no meaning waiting to be found. There was no silver lining. Fuck, there wasn't even any kind of line to begin with.

So it's somewhat comforting to find that you have learned some lessons along the way. For starters: drinking and wondering aren't the best of partners.

Nothing terribly good has ever came up from those moments. Quite the opposite, really. Perhaps these lessons have got something to do with an increased tolerance of alcohol and melancholy. Maybe it's the age. Maybe it's the denial.

Or maybe — and this seems to be the most plausible explanation — you're tired of wondering. Let time answer the questions that your mind will never be able to figure out. And until those answers appear, go make yourself useful.

Which is possibly why, like a sick, masochistic habit, you find yourself back at this place on a quiet Saturday night.

It gives you something else to think about.