beat down

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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.

that’s the true tragedy of your early passage jack, i’m sorry to say. you had the gift. you could spin words in ways that inspired people to awareness. lest we forget again what you brought to light. the reinterpretation of freedom and the fresh hell it creates when you grasp its implications. love was the key and you were a withholder. not just to women but to everyone, as solipsism tends to consume one with the selfishness of being a self, i prefer to forget these nattering thoughts of self doubt and self loathing and questioning of purpose that is just blissful in the afternoon. even if it’s just to go out and mow the lawn, sometimes i want to not face the emptiness of all things , the eternity that is not golden but dark and lonely. who knows what intensity awaits?  be in love with the world and all the things in it. it’s all we really know. for now.