On my way back.

A year of planes and hotels hadn’t gotten me any further. Certain things were burned upon the memory, and no amount of alcohol, women, and drugs can rub out the mark. How was I to know she would be one of them?
On a plane again watching a romantic movie, that almost makes me sick, just to pass the hours drinking an Irish whiskey for the first time in months. I looked in the lavatory mirror seeing the red intersecting the whites of my eyes from the inability to sleep despite the months of lacking, and the dark semi-circles are an even clearer sign. I feel old, unimaginably old that my 27 years multiplies themselves by 10 or more until I was a petrified flesh still moving.
There was a place I had felt. Now? I didn’t. I wasn’t depressed or angry. I wasn’t… anything. I had opened the flood gates that had been clamped shut banded with iron for so long that everything rushed out, and there was nothing to catch it. Now I was an objective observer to my life and all the spheres intersecting. Life had become a scientific pursuit and all intrinsic interest had gone; only a noting of events, reactions, and causes. How long had I been watching? Not as long as it felt. Time was an hourglass turning circles, so that minutes and hours were lost to the sand never at rest.
whiskey reminded me. I had almost given it up, but what would have been left if I had?
I needed the placebo effect that told me I was numb, when it really wasn’t evne the whiskey. I hadn’t been drunk since that weekend, and I stared at my whiskey more often than drank it. I tried to think of another girl, but it was like trying to see inside a shadow with a flashlight; nothing lasted. Her smile was a memory I used to try and bring back a feeling, any feeling, but there wasn’t anything to bring back. My little emotional experiment failed, and I didn’t care either way. Just like the whiskey I drank, but never enough to feel… any different, just a habit like life lived objectively. The ink stains my white shirt as I write this down, but the inability to remove the stains doesn’t bother me. Just another shirt. I have others. Whiskey again, only this time they put ice in it. I’d drink it fast to not let the ice melt, but instead I watch the cubes sink into disappearing letting the flight attendant take it away. 1 hour left and my ipod had no charge, and my book has no interest. Instead I recline counting twitches of my eye lids…one…two…there.