I don’t know what I am writing about any more and I have no idea what direction I am headed in. The two appear to go hand in hand. Once I lose track of my inner compass than all hope is lost for what I project and create in the world I function in. My college best friend visiting helped remind me of where I came from, but after three days of talking, I still don’t know what direction I am truly headed in. We discussed our dreams and the possibilities and have plans for years down the road, but I still don’t know what I will be doing tomorrow. I know eventually where I want to end up, but finding the next step to take seems impossibly overwhelming, so instead I stepped back into the bottle this weekend — and the worst part was that it felt good. Nostalgia made me want to become the person I used to identify myself as, the one who could drink half a bottle of Jameson and rally the troops for a good old fashioned dance party. I loved being that person in costume again who was the life of the party and attracted all male eyes in the room. I miss dancing on tables and meeting new people every night. I wish I had money to carelessly spend from a job that I couldn’t care less about. I want to be healthy, but a larger part of me wants the easy way out and to not allow fun to pass me by in life. I am young and reckless still and I have the luxury of being able to afford it now. I know it won’t last for long, and that one day I will look up from a bottle and wonder yet again where all of the time has gone and crave for it to be returned to me versus forgotten in the dark corner of a bar. I want to strike a balance but I have always been into indulging extremes. I love and hate that person I was known as in college, and I can’t stop talking about her. I love telling her stories and reminiscing on the audacious things she said. I wish I could reunite with her over something besides a bottle of whiskey but that seems to be the only thing that draws her out. I know I am past the point of no longer caring about my body, but it is so easy to forget that over the course of a drunken weekend. I have dreams that I don’t want to discuss when intoxicated and those dreams start to slip away the longer I slip into oblivion. I start to second guess myself with every decision to sip on a bottle, but grow more confident in my decision to not care the longer I do it. I see how addiction can run deep, yet I want to continue testing the water. I wake up knowing nothing more than that I am hungover and I am satisfied with that. I am fine with a reality that I live one day at a time, until it has happened too many days in a row — until the haze has began to overtake reality and I am lost in a fog that never seems to clear. I am terrified of and love drinking, and I hit my biggest highs and lows in moments when I have a bottle of Jameson in my hand. I brag about my practice of self-hate as if it is a badge to wear in my twenties in order to distract others from the fact that there are bigger dreams I am not accomplishing. I pretend that finishing a bottle of whiskey is my biggest life goal for the evening, and I fully commit to my purpose. Dreams no longer exist in the face of drunken stupor and it lulls my mind into peace versus aggravating it the way I do when I am sober. It used to numb the pain but now I know that it is only deepening the wound and I can’t seem to care about the consequences. What has happened to me? Or has this always been happening? I want to cry and drink and hide from myself in the face of others. I want to pretend like I don’t have issues and that every day is a happy go lucky experience. I think that if I can fool others than maybe I can also fool myself. I know these things aren’t true, but it has never stopped me from trying. I want to speak the truth and never know what it is all at the same time. I try too hard to hide my struggle from others when I should be facing it with their support. I have the kind of friends who will support me through anything, yet I do not allow them to. I want to wallow. I want to struggle. And I want to always remember that I am not perfect and I never will be. I want to only invite love into my life, but I want to hate myself while doing it. I want to be a pillar of support for others but I want to crumble when it comes to facing my own challenges. I want to be everything any man ever dreamed of, and never give myself the chance to be happy with anyone. I know I deserve better in life, but there is a part of me that never wants to obtain it. I want to spite myself in spite of others and say that I meant to do it all along — because there is a part of me that does mean to do it. I don’t know why it exists no matter how much I have tried to stomp it out or understand its existence. I wish I could wake up a better person, but I never see any amount of change when I look at myself in the mirror in the morning. I applaud and tear down myself all in one fell swoop of a glance, and am left to move on with my day in a state of confusion with no clear purpose. What is wrong with me? And why do I always have to ask that question? Why can’t I be happy with reality and move the fuck on with my life? Why do I always have to dream?