They said he wasn’t an alcoholic—
just an ordinary drunkard,
as if the distinction much differed
from the one between a lover’s quarrel
and the early morning banter
of seagulls.
More words to ponder at maciejmodzelewski.com
Tag: addiction
Journal (No such thing as a free drink)
Falling in love is like a shot on the house in a dubious establishment—free and intoxicating but not without its unpleasant consequences the next morning. The barman is a professional who knows what he is doing, as there is no such thing as a free drink—it’s a trap to make you crave some more, where every next jigger costs you double. At the end, you wake up in a dodgy apartment, laying on the floor in your own spew, or worse—on the street. The irony is that you despise it and promise yourself never again, only to end up in the same bar the very next evening, asking for another round. Lucky few who have never fallen victim to this addiction.
Rhymester, read thyself
“You have lost your wits and have gone astray; and, like an unskilled doctor, fallen ill, you lose heart and cannot discover by which remedies to cure your own disease.”
Aeschylus, Prometheus Bound
With mobile phones, we have become accustomed to immediate responses,
so no one wants to wait for anything anymore. Add to that the quality
of our relationships—likely comparable to the nutritional value
of a plastic bowl of instant noodles—and it’s no wonder we are trapped
between the Scylla of solitude and the Charybdis of addiction to dating apps,
ending up lonely one way or another.
Dealing with people sooner or later brings disappointment. I get that.
But we all have our quirks and neglected issues, so maybe it’s time
to stop being harder on others than on yourself.
Give them a chance, and they may pleasantly surprise you,
said the one least likely to read his own words.
Addiction knows no glory
Whether I read The Waste Land or Metamorphoses,
Much Ado About Nothing or Waiting for Godot,
The Karamazov Brothers or One Hundred Years of Solitude,
I am constantly reminded that there is more to writing
than writing. And I know the so-called ten thousand-hour rule,
but I’m also painfully aware that even if I double or triple that,
I still won’t be even remotely close to Whitman or Keats,
regardless of whether it is a matter of a gift from some gods
I don’t believe in or genetics and the fact that my brain
may lack the unusual setup of Einstein’s. But despite everything,
I keep writing because what doesn’t go away with adolescent acne
becomes a lifelong addiction.
hidden pilcrow 