{ in any moment, this is the day. }

A means to the end. I don't serve a god of condemnation. And he is here now. He does come here, to the bar, where I've found myself again. It is not bad. I am not as bad as I was at a time. But I've come here in lieu of a craving. I feel a false safety. I know. I don't want to drink. I crave fellowship. I want friends. And they aren't here. Truly, there is nothing good here. In all honesty, I can here for a hidden, smoking patio. And maybe the charm of the broken folk, like myself. But I am alone, in this place. Because no one wants to talk about god. Or maybe they do. But the only reason I ever came here was to go as far away as possible. To pare my thoughts down the a muddled hum. Something seemingly more manageable. Nasty habits.

It is three pm. The weekends have been beautiful and rough around the edges, so much like myself. The day is charming. Lord. Last night I puked my guts out, and towards the end of that endeavor my nose stared gushing gobs of blood. It was horrible. My body went into shock. I recognized it. And stood in the shower for a very long time handing it over to a higher power. These strange things. Very.

It smells deliciously sweet. The aroma of alcohol speaks convoluted love songs to me, whispering soft hymns of future elation. All creepy-like and dizzifying. Numbs the word. Hush up. I have to keep heading forward. I have always had many friends to drink with. To destroy with. Most anyone will be that for you. It's true. But I don't see them anymore. I think of their familiar faces often. And I miss them.

Grant me excitement for this venture. It is fifty-five degrees. It is March 15th, 2009. It is a Sunday. Tomorrow is going to be a Monday. I am twenty-four years old. And I am blessed.

Process is a portion of the all encompassing organism. It is not the organism itself. Process is the intangible road of thought. It is not action. The internal notion of equation. An emotional path, past and future. But always the flutter of hope for something more. I wonder why the chest flutters. Vagal response.

I am Norwegian. Also Irish. But that doesn't really matter too much, if at all. Sometimes I want to tell the world about all the things I am. Everything that accumulates into the definition of my person hood. Not all of those things are complementary to any life anywhere. And truth be told, none of them make any specific difference. But for some reason, they seem to clothe me. Although, however relevant, this too, is not true, or consequential.

It is fifty degrees. The hail comes down in clicks and pings. at three forty-five on Sunday, march 15th. 2009. I am twenty-four years old. My friends of destruction are all long gone, and I am here now. Alone at the bar. Where still no one wants to talk about god, and we are all drowning. And the only reason that does matter, the only reason that is relevant, is because of process. And because of something infinitely better.

If I am anything at all, it is totally naked. Surrounded by everyone and all alone. The supposed quintessential worst nightmare. But honestly, sturdy relief is impending a much desired substantial humility. Because once my identity is completely stripped, I am divinely handed my actual garments. The ones I am supposed to be wearing. Even now, I am still learning how to best adorn my sacred wardrobe. Occasionally finding myself putting on the old clothes, and every damn time I feel so damn ugly. And I keep forgetting. For whatever stupid reason I am still uncomfortable. Yet this is part of my process. And not the whole organism. I am the entire organism. Naked and awkward and stupid. Always trying. Constantly redeemed. The hail stops. And it is till Fifty degrees.

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