Blackout

Blackout.
You've been here before. No matter how many times you've tried. No matter how many times you swore, this is where it pulls you. The lost hours. Time, simply gone.
You're so clueless. Do you try again? Or just make it stop now, make it all go away?

One bullet... or one more bottle, one last drink, take it beyond limits, far past the brink.

It's just an escape, a crutch they say.
Why are you so wasted, wasting life away?

A hit of this, get intense. Swallow that, have some focus. One drink too far and you've done it again. Oblivion. O bliv i on. Clueless.

Every once in a while there's this window, or this door. Its not the first time you've noticed it, but you've walked past it many times before. You've even glanced out, and a few times, stepped through.
But you get so lost out there and end up back here, looking to re-find you.
Then time gets lost. There are the hours you don't have a clue how you spend,
where, doing what, with whom.
You're beginning to find that unacceptable.

And if its not hours you lose, you can't remember little things.
Brownout.
Sometimes you forget something as simple as the next word, or the topic of conversation,
or what you were thinking about that a moment ago seemed so profound,
or what your car looks like, or where it might be parked.

And you know its because of what you're doing, of what you're drinking, of what you're taking.
But if you don't medicate, you get lost again. But if you continue on, you're gonna lose some more time.
Worse than that, you're going to lose that last shred, and you don't have any idea when that will happen.
There's no predicting it. No control.

And it is unacceptable. You can't live like this.
But you can't live like that, either.

So you start thinking about insurance policies, how no one really needs to have you around,
how easy it would be to cross the center line into the path of that semi on Highway 441,
or how peaceful those 30 Valiums and an afternoon nap might be,
or how quickly it'd be over if you could go down on the barrel of a shotgun.
Where did all this pain come from?

Then you remember your children. And something inside of you is screaming.
You get a picture of them, 10 years from now -
And the pain you thought you killed when you pulled that trigger, you realize,
only gets transferred to them. Ten-fold.
So you put the shotgun back in the closet, and the shells back in the box...

...but nothing changes, not really. And death has a call that you're finding impossible not to hear.
Sometimes you want it so badly.
Not the slow and painful death your addiction demands,
but the fastest and least obvious way you can find out of here.
But you can't even find that without three hits and a pint, and a load of shame to carry over into the next life. And if you can't live without it, how in the hell did you ever think you could die without it?

Its just an escape, a crutch, I've heard.
One more drink, not another word.

I’m Maze. I’m an addict.