A Shot of Apathy

Quick… feel the burn, the sting, the fire that takes your breath away for those precious few seconds where you’re actually capable of feeling something before the numbness of this sickness this disorder of the emotional synapses this disease of the heart robs you even of that and then you’re stuck sitting at a bar staring ahead into a dusty mirror reflecting back distorted images of shot glasses and empty whiskey bottles empty eyes an empty husk of a body holding puddles of liquor and volcanic clouds of cigaret smoke and oceans of apathy.

Pick your poison, throw your head back, soak up those precious few seconds of feeling even if it’s pain, and don’t chase it don’t try and mask it as you might the taste of cheap vodka or gin, let it scrunch your face up in a smile or a grimace of disgust, let the tears stream down your face, let the laughter out of its prison in sudden proclamation that yes I am alive and although my eyes look like a frozen blue lake in a blizzard they can thaw out and invite you to swim in them.

These cold blue eyes are the product of accumulated shots of apathy, seasons of nights and days drinking bottles labeled “Apathy: Feel the Void” (please drink responsibly) enough bottles to drown the sensibilities of even the purest heart so that over time those precious few seconds of feeling come as rarely as moments of clarity for the alcoholic, but still they come unexpectedly and at odd times roaring from the emotional solar plexus like some runaway tsunami but bringing hope and pointing to a new residence outside of Apathyville and I treasure those moments writing short stories and poems about them so that I won’t forget and go back to taking shots of apathy.

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