It was 12:15am I was at my Consul 232 clacking away at the keys, I was drinking again. I had a day of it getting to this fucking point but really it was the last thing on my mind. I was preoccupied with thoughts of her. Why did she disappear? Ah, that’s it the haunting sting of the haunting aspect of aptly named ghosting. It is no riddle to figure out why I was here again single messy and drunk. The only real comfort was a stack of paper and the sound my typewriter makes when I make words appear in orderly fashion. The room itself was polluted with weeks of depression caused neglected. This was the after math I guess I have problems.
I thought back to when I met her. Beautifully flawed she strolled into my life, it was a struggle to get to know her but the more I knew the more I liked her. I had always had a problem with drinking, but not like her I had never met anyone with an aggressive need for beer and whiskey as her. “She was more than that” A thought that always came pounding threw whenever I thought about her drinking which eventually lead to me drinking again most nights. She was also living with another man and had been for over ten years, I could care less the more she told me about him the more I disliked him. I suppose she always felt a little guilty for meeting me. I know that sounds full of myself but she was always telling me she didn’t deserve me in her life making her as happy as she always told me she felt. I suppressed the sinking feeling with another belt of cheap wine, it worked almost so I had two.
I could feel my body tense as the anger at myself for getting attached to such a flawed beauty began to swell inside. It reflected my own flaws right back at me in a glaring ugly fashion. Glaringly moody I sat back and saw the dark reflection, the need to be loved too badly, to protect and be a savior her hero symptoms a life of unhappiness looking for it in another person. I tried to get back to typing but I couldn’t riddle with the mystery of how to solve my character flaws or what was to be painted as a character flaws these days. How did it work? I don’t have the time or the money for expensive head doctors that admittedly are still figuring things out. I looked at what I written
“Help, Help, Help, I’m not sure I know myself any more life is collection of experiences but they are just experiences do they truly define much?”
I took much of it as surprise where had these words come from? I examined them more closely. Only to feel more defeated by my subconscious I slumped back into my bottle knowing I would never see her again. I finished off the night by signing my subconscious cry for help with my name and address and stuck it on the back of my apartment door. I guess I was hoping someone someone could see it and help but I was to afraid to ask.