The Black Dog

OK. There’s more to my two-year absence. I didn’t just get distracted.

I got shitfaced drunk.

Arguably, the main reason I never followed through with this blog was because I started drinking again, like I did before. Like after she left.

I distracted myself with work, an eight-hour shift just long enough for the wine/vodka/shooters to wear off. Then I went to the store and bought alchohol. Then I went home and drank it. Two years went by.

It caught up with me, the Black Dog.

Sometimes I would go to the park, sit in my car and nurse a thermometer of rum. I watched them in the summer of their lives, the human race. Joggers, plugging through life. Children, twirling in their innocence. Friends sharing a park bench. The druggies and perverts too. I rarely drove off before crying. Jesus, I loved them.

Sometimes I went to the Pub and talked to strangers. The small talk was always enjoyable, but by the end I know I freaked them out. I talk too much when I drink, when I have someone to talk to. I drink too much when I’m alone.

Maybe that’s why I need you. Maybe, in this sober sunshine, I can realize that the dreams are my subconscious trying to tell me something. Maybe it was meant only for me.

But that wouldn’t explain the others. So many I would talk to at the bar, they would loosen up after a few rounds. We would talk about dreams. Sure, there were differences.

But basically, the dreams were all the same.