Out There (79 of 90)

The dream was always a little cabin, in the middle of nowhere, away from humanity, where I couldn’t cause anymore damage.

I can see the cabin, a small 2 room place. The bedroom and living area separated by a door. One story. I have never much cared for two. It’s too difficult to escape. Too easily trapped. A kitchen with enough elbow room to really get down to it. A fireplace in the living room. And woods.

I have known this place in my head for years, a place far removed from the people I know, the live I have lived and the world around me.

I have known it because in this place, with nothing around me and no people to harm, I can write and drink and exist until it’s time to not anymore.


I can’t explain to you the mind of an addict anymore than I have tried to already. All I can do is continue to delve in the psyche of it, to try to understand.

Because tonight – like so many other weekends – I sit in this small town, miles from anyone I know and love and wonder what is keeping me sane and sober. Because my mind continues to drift to the cabin and Jack Daniels and the writing.

In the mind of an addict, the problem isn’t the drinking. It’s the surroundings. The responsibilities. And tonight – like so many other weekends – I would pitch everything aside if I simply had the opportunity to be in that cabin forever.

I don’t know what would happen if I was there, but I suspect I would write far more than I do these days. I don’t believe I would live very long, either, although one can never tell such things.

I would certainly leave behind many people, many gains, many freedoms.

I tell you this because I would do it, knowing that, anyway.


There is a thing that I shouldn’t write because it will bother my parents, although frankly I suspect most of the things I write bother them on some level.

And it’s not fair because this thing that I worry about is un-control-able and inevitable. Which makes it all the more disconcerting because there is there nothing that can be done.

When they are gone, though, I wonder what my anchor to this world will be. Where my friends have families, and children, and significant others, and responsibilities that tether them to this world. I do not have these. Maybe because those who have been involved with me have known that I may one day end up in the cabin.

I worry that the thing that keeps me here is not me. And given the opportunity, or freed from those tethers, I will float freely away from this serene place.


My creativity is tied so intimately with drinking and smoking that doing neither of them causes me, at times, to lose hours into the nothingness.

It’s  hard to describe nothingness to people because it’s the lack of all metaphors. I imagine what it’s like floating in space with no identifiable way to realize whether you are moving or what direction you are facing of whether time has passed.

There are hours that pass sometimes before I realize that I haven’t moved. Or eaten. Or turned on a light. Or anything. There is nothing particularly of interest in my head. Just that void.


Of course tonight will be another night without Jack Daniels (it’s okay parentals). As will tomorrow. The tethers are still here, bound around me.

I have come to realize this way my mind works is not going to heal. It is healed. At least in that way.

This is the way of my brain and I will need to find a way to navigate the rapids as they bounce me through the cosmos. I am not entirely sure how I what will happen. I can’t feel motion or direction or time.

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