Out of the Dark

Somehow, a perforation happened.

The fog of myself was dense, I’d become wraith-like and no one could reach me.

S ended up talking to me. Pulling me out of my hermit shell. I was surprised she could do it, but she did it.

The guinea pigs help. Talking helps.

I picked up Night Shift again by Stephen King. Short, potent stories to read while the late July heat languishes over Florida.

I told S about my desire to write a horror story about alcoholism. She likens it to a monkey on the back. How the monkey screams, all shrill.

Have the martini, it says. Have the whisky. Have the rum.

I plunged into darkness and no one could find me. She says little goals are important. She says K was in shambles the whole time I was in my grotesque darkness of self-pity. An aberration on our daily lives.

Baby steps.