It’s a strange feeling, like being rudderless in a windy harbor. You watch people moving by you, going about their lives like there’s nothing wrong with the world and you know that you can never be like them. You’re on the outside, a part of something, but not anything that the ones on the inside would recognize.
You’re too far gone. Too far into the wilderness. So you stand there, hands in your coat pockets, breathing out contrails they slide by, laughing, arm in arm on their way to brightly lit homes and restaurants with high-end atmosphere and tiny food. You tell yourself it’s all in the name of King and Country, that you’re fighting the good fight, but in the end you know it’s a lie.
You want a brightly lit home. A meal in an atmospheric restaurant. A hand to hold. Something to tell you that in the end it’s all worth it. That there’s more than a gold watch or a black star on a white marble wall waiting for you.
So what do you do? You head to a safe place. A smoky bar where no one will know your face. Bourbon. Neat.