For twenty long agonizing years, I have forced myself to conjure up enough words to fill this voided parchment known only as “the paper”. My lackadaisical afternoons bring me nothing but overly exasperated nights, and still, it’s incomplete. I’m incomplete. What the hell am I even doing anymore? Has my beloved pastime become the bane of my existence?

I think not.

It was never for you, nor for your selfish entertainment; no, this passion is mine and mine alone. It’s my rock. My best friend. The only one who can truly understand me is me. My words, my heart, my sorrows, all wrapped up into a whimsical disaster full of madness and failure, and it’s all for me!

I’m sorry.

I love you, my readers, my fellow writers, those metaphorically on the brink of blowing a gasket, closing the book and dropping the pen. From my start, I have tried to reach you, connect with you on another wordly level with the hope that you reach back. Outstretch your arms. Let me take you by the hand. My writing is yours! It’s all for you! I will let you onboard my roller coaster of insanity, but I ask you not to judge. I wear my heart on my sleeve, my most sincere thoughts exposed, and your desires are my priority.

Just forgive me if I fail...

The raindrops danced along the balcony awning like remorseful beats of a snare drum, reciting a solo symphony for this man without an essence. The Irish grain is my only host this evening, filling my already damaged psyche with ruefully improper guilt. These typically chestnut colored orbs are now stained with a crimson hue and too painful to close, not that my nightmares are any more pleasant.

Clutched in my dominant hand is the nearly empty fifth, scarred digits gripping the neck of the bottle like it belongs to my demons. My breathing becomes staggered. My vision grows blurred, although not enough to mask the image of the photograph in my left hand...a family portrait dated somewhere in the years when smiles were present and sorrow was unaccounted for. Happier days. The last picture of the four of us united.

Pursed lips wrapped around the mouth of the Jameson. The remaining whiskey burnt my throat on its passage down. An unnecessary drink. I am already beyond repair. Closing fiery eyes for mere seconds as familiar lyrics echoed through speakers in my home, I attempt to mutter the words, but the quivering in my lips forbids such a gesture.

Muscles in my shoulder rapidly flex as the bottle is released into the air, crashing against the aged drywall with a clatter. Such desolate thoughts have long tantalized my mind, that I may escape this bleak nightmare. For it is only in this inebriated state of consciousness that I have the power to dictate my own nirvana.

When my muscles finally become paralyzed from exhaustion, I slump to the hardwood with a heavy thud, my host tucking me into a paradoxical slumber, the photograph still glued to my fingers like a child’s teddy bear in the night.

Sleep well, Prince. Tomorrow is coming, whether you are ready for it or not.