From Working Nine To Wine

I banged my head against a brick wall.

I have been running up and down the inebriated socio-economic smoke rings for three days now. At first it feels like the acceleration is quite low. The jerks and awkwardness make the glass stay in the hand for long. As time passes, the glass slips down with sudden nonchalance and breaks into a thousand pieces like my wandering heart every time I get drunk. I feel entitled to love and conversation when I'm drunk. The conversations hardly lead to love and end up being foggy and vague and wrapped in a mist of rapidly flowing apparitions.

Tonight I will dance with the bottle of wine on my head and will not care about the rains trying to knock it down. I want to write about you. I want to write about the warm glow that fills my stomach when I see you. I know all these words of love have been used by everyone who has fancied you and it has been used in all the love songs that make our playlists. But the words of love are all we have in this world that has already been destroyed by the glares and stares of depression.