beat down


jack, i understand where you were coming from, except i’m not a drunk. we all have our vices. no judgement. i wonder how different you might have been if you were submerged in this culture, looked around and saw the alcoholic stupor that has atrophied the best of our minds. granted it breaks down the inhibitions we have, the ones that stop us from being the thing we most want to be, but jack, the drinking killed your imagination. it stopped you from touching the true essence of the beauty you sought like every other poet to espouse as a reason for carrying on living. suicide is frowned upon in the Catholic religion, and you were devout only in as much as you could let the philosophy carry you through the emptiness of knowing nothing has any meaning. life death, can spin you out if you focus too much on meaning. use the heart as a compass and set sail into the unknown. only you can map the space accurately. drinking yourself to death obsessed with meaninglessness that even the spirits couldn’t lift you from. boredom and insanity.

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