“Oh Bloody Hell, I’m drunk.” Hannah grinned, taking a sip of the bottle of fire whiskey she had nipped from the center table, having already made great use of the alcohol–feeling it heat her up and blur her thoughts.
Today had been a particularly gruelling day–having had to deal with a couple of younger years spit insults behind her back as she walked down the halls. She couldn’t blame them really—she had turned her back as the Carrow’s tortured her classmates and students around her. But the words hurt none the less.
She turned towards the person next to her and smirked, “You look way to sober, my friend.”
it’s difficult to object how many nights you laid on the uncovered mattress, next to curtains blowing dust. you are visible in concepts - light, shadows, sound; present in possibility - untouched books, blank documents, unopened packets of coffee.
funny how i breathe and peel skin off my fingers faster the more i drink caffeine; but some nights i feel like anything is tolerable so long as i switch off the lights and close my eyes (where you are).
i digress. i’ve come from running so hard under the heat, in the blur of things seeing you, to running longer so the spinning lasts. i’ve come from daydreaming about better realities to daydreaming about how i can get you to be present in mine, whether it was the better one or not. i’ve come from sipping in hopes of seeing you, to downing bottles in attempts to be next to you.
quicksand. it’s funny how i think you’ll save me, but you can’t. you drag me down to where you live, by hook or crook, mostly the latter, where the world is dark and direction is only for pretense. settled in the nook of static; where the world is dark and concepts - the concepts you embodied - do not exist.
somehow, all this i cannot see; i continue to drink coffee.