I Am Here, My Ethos.

Chapter 11: Beacon Moments of The Night

 The stars are aligning. Beacon moments of the night. They are ethereal, sovereign. Looks like my intentions are apparent. I know which drink I'm having tonight. The stars are modest in their rightful heir to be untethered.

In the night, its not hard to see, the light is adjacent to itself. It takes the shape of it really well. Yet my eyes can't focus to that outreach. Its following the path of my eyes, slowed down because of my intoxication. I see the bright.

I know I'm drunk.

I tried to fight off my last share of whiskey to stay upright and walking. The pace of it already caught up to me, I wasn't steady.

I'm going to find my time in this moment. In between melodies at the top of my voice, I sounded good. I have a crisp voice and my talents never betray me.

My spirit is euphoric to the added freedom of "what the hell is going on." I was merry. Slightly uncoordinated, I satiate. I can tell I'm going to stay for a few more hours.

Ecliptic, alive, and within a mild tendency for outbursts.

The focus is to reach ecstasy. "Light is parallel so that it follows perspective." My work is never a dull moment, I muttered to myself. 

The light is parallel so that- I follow perspective. My perspective.

The perception of time swivels to feelings. The focus is ecstasy, magnified to scale so that I see myself. In a version that is so minuscule, I question my livelihood.

It's been hours.

Its dark outside, I can barely make out a path. I need to focus to see what is going on. The moon reflects its light on a river. Life carries me. A stream in this wide river, I am but a floating duck.

The river is dark, uninviting. I've kept a safe distance.

I follow the stars because my thoughts are pragmatic. Random in their approach, I am my scripture.

The light is parallel so that I follow perspective.

It follows my thoughts, sometimes alongside me is fault. The wrong side of heaven, my mistake is that I dwell. Before me, a need for a higher deception. The light changes to my prologue. I wait for another instance to sway my thoughts, where I can pretend I met myself on the same floor. So that I can drink, more. 

Creation of reality, the inception brings God to my store. 

Mountains of trees, I'm nearly glancing. I see the street is carrying my weight regardless. I can breathe its remarks. It never ends with breaching my territories. I am standing, against a man and his love for asphalt. He really paved his highway to heaven, I can't imagine the ambition behind never soaring.

It is out in the dark, my dream. My pulmonary vision is blind to it. Though I sense it's company. It is great in feeling. Unequivocal in its reach. I didn't know we'd cross paths, my chimera.

The house of Light- the philosophy of life mistakes me. My first call is nature. And my last call was a shot of vodka.

I see that the silence has taken over me, it is deep in its stay. The weather is different. I am wasted, and in its residence, I remain.

Under a shelter of stark, the light is dim and sorry.

It is straight as it turns onto itself innately. It is swaying. I am still, trying. The smell of the creak is winding, it is only my perception that lights the streets. Only then do the stars show themselves.

The pace of my remorse, is my trance.

I am modest in my retrieval.

Home.

I like to stay royal in thought. So that I know where to put my shoes. 

You are what you are If you are not what you are.

It is loud against the matt, my stagnant. I am a young soul, momentary lapses is my trait.

Collecting happy hours so I can remember the meaning of drinking so much. I am moderation's chimera. Moreover, I am who I am. Right?

Commenting on past situations when I was most alive. I see that whiskey is not my only escape. A critic of soul, my dry whiskey commends my pride for lasting so long. The light follows my streaks while my trophy remains at the bottom of that river. I like to remain humbly privileged.

Sometimes, I am what I drink. Passive in judgement.

Even when the light's are dim, I can still make out the wisps of my hair. 

The mirror opposite shadow my entrance. I can create meaning out of void, to not give in to the lost drunken.