At a Bar

Empty bar stool — "Alone at Brown's Point" Photo by ingridtaylar. ingridtaylar has no affiliation with me, or A.B.Normal Publishing Media Group, nor do they support my work and/or practices.

Photo by ingridtaylar. ingridtaylar has no affiliation with me, or A.B.Normal Publishing Media Group, nor do they support my work and/or practices.

When you’re in a bar and all the loudness drowns out to silence. You’re left alone in your own thoughts—drowning not only your sorrows, but drowning in your own thoughts and feelings. You wrestle your thoughts.

Each glass (or bottle) slamming into each other, to their hopeful defeat. But each one—each one creeps up from supposed submission, and sticks its tendrils into your brain; further stirring the thought pot, the soup of contemplation.

You’ve stayed the hand of self-infliction. You’ve kept at bay the beasts of doubt, and guilt; however, guilt is a hydra, and no matter how you’ve sliced each head off, it’s come back—staying on its haunches, going for your throat. Its poison, flowing daily each day, stifling even the most positive of good, and pure.

The thoughts are murmurs now, though, do they even really exist? You eye the simplest of utensils, meant for daily nutrition—a fork and knife. It’s dull, crude, and yet realistic. Suitable for the job, you think. Life offers all its benefits, yet to one nowadays, they’re just unrealistic.

“I’ll have another,” you say. Perhaps one more beer to keep the beast at bay. It’s not just any beast. In fact, it’s far more dangerous than guilt, or doubt. Oh that suicidal kamikaze of a bitch beast, called life. It houses everything: the good, the bad, happiness, sadness—as such, a malevolent beast that you wonder, how is it exactly that you keep it suppressed, hidden from the world, for all to see.

Some could call you an alcoholic. Some could say you’re crazy. Some would say that you’re not worth the effort to fix—inefficient, ineffective, broken, a big mess that’s better off left for dead, and forgotten.

“It’s a lonely day that’s all.” You try to reason, but inside, you know it to be only half true. You feel numb. You feel cold. You want everyone to shut the hell up and go away. However, you know it to be a public setting. . .and it’s probably for the best, because you know you’d probably break. After all, it is all alone that you break.

And no matter how you try to hide it—whether it’s a smile, a joke, or comedy act. The war rages on inside. You only hope is that you can keep the beasts at bay, even for just another day.

“I’ll take that beer, and an appetizer,” you say; giving a smile, just so thereafter, they’ll go away.

Don’t worry, you think, tomorrow will be a better day.


Robert J. S. T. McCartney
A.B.Normal Publishing and Media Group
Other Writing



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