Living to Die or Dying to Live

The problem is I need alcohol to write. I can't not write. It's all I have left to be. Beside an alcoholic.

I guess it's all related. The need to write. The need to drink. Both issues spurred by some other problem. But I don't know what the problem is.

I've thought about it a lot tonight and the passed few nights and I've finally come to a conclusion. There's something very wrong with me and it was wrong long before there was alcohol to blame it on. It's that wrong that is the reason alcohol ever got involved.

No one ever stays in my life. They always end up leaving or I push them away. Logic tells me chances are I'm the one with problem and not all those other people. Only trouble is, I don't know what's wrong with me. Well, I do. I know I can't cultivate meaningful relationships. Not lasting ones anyway. And I know I've had this problem since I was a child. And no, I didn't drink when I was a child.

So I know the problem, I just don't know why I have it. Where it came from or why it never left.

I guess that's why I'm so fond of alcohol. Because for a little while (a long while by my standards) it facilitated my building of relationships with other humans. But even alcohol has not sovereign over this curse. Eventually the spell it cast wore off and I turned back into a toad again.

In the fairy tales it's always the prince who's the toad and the woman's kiss that breaks the spell. In real life it could be anyone whose outsides don't match their ins. Whose words always comes out wrong. And the only kiss that can lift that curse is that of death.

I've spent most of my life living to die. Now I'm dying to live. But everyday I see less and less difference between the two.