The life of a drinker.

I like the life of a drinker. '

He wastes his time, always trying to to numb himself. Trying to think his darkest thoughts without pain.

Always around people yet always alone. His thoughts burn with emotion, haunted by the chaos of the past, to which he finds there is no fair answer.

He lost in every situation. Always an ant amongst the gods.

He drinks until his thoughts only whisper, quiet enough to at least be able to fall asleep. So that, in the morning, he might have one chance at redemption. To make redeem himself for the hell he caused to all those around him.

Thinking he will finally find his soul on the bottom of that glass. Even though he knows there is no bottom. Hell is an unforgiving pit - The guards have never had a conscience.

The drinkers are the writers. The dreamers. The poets. The romantics. The ones that burn from the black water. That remind the world that there’s more than what they might see. Or could even possibly believe.

Even though they would never possibly believe it themselves.

For, if the world is not every bit as dark to them too, they would not waste as much time trying to find the light. The one that they’ll die before they could ever see it for themself.