I sluggishly got out of the bed and went to the kitchen. My head was still hurting. The alcohol from the previous night was a little over the top, but then, it had always been that way. After quenching my parched throat, my body failed to move again. No it was more like the sense of balance is turned off and there was I, in constant vertigo. I was addicted to this intoxication, the feeling of being liberated from having to be conscious about moving – about doing, about being. Only during this moment I don't care about who I am, who I was, who I will be. Time didn't exist, neither did space; do I myself exist? Around this point of philosophical discourse, usually, the body would send the signals – the signals that re-establish the boundaries of reality, the freedom was just an illusion. The unbearable migraine, the pangs of hunger, the extreme thirst.
Of course, I also enjoyed the release of the alter-ego when the alcohol kicked in. When self-restraints are sent flying out of the window; when the inner, truer self breaks free. People always tell me how astonished they are when they witness what a drastic turn my personality takes when flooded by alcohol. I'm sure the sight of the timid man who always keeps to his own cubicle spouting vulgarities to strangers is really shocking. When asked which is my true personality, I honestly don't know. On one hand, abiding to the common code of civil conducts is fine, but sometimes there are things or people that try your patience. In a sense, it is indeed freedom, since the things are manifestation of what cannot be said or conducted within boundaries of self-control.
But I didn't think of these things when I was slithering on the cold marble floor, clutching my head as the throbs of pains struck like a thousand needles – the price to pay for transient liberation. My hand reached out to the kitchen top. The glass fell and made a crashing sound; individual droplets scattering in all directions in slow motion. The sight of my wife at the door, shaking her head, already desensitised by the sight, thinking that there was I again, wallowing in self-created, illusionary freedom. But to me the freedom was real, as real as all these things. Why would you need to break free from being free?
Of course, I also enjoyed the release of the alter-ego when the alcohol kicked in. When self-restraints are sent flying out of the window; when the inner, truer self breaks free. People always tell me how astonished they are when they witness what a drastic turn my personality takes when flooded by alcohol. I'm sure the sight of the timid man who always keeps to his own cubicle spouting vulgarities to strangers is really shocking. When asked which is my true personality, I honestly don't know. On one hand, abiding to the common code of civil conducts is fine, but sometimes there are things or people that try your patience. In a sense, it is indeed freedom, since the things are manifestation of what cannot be said or conducted within boundaries of self-control.
But I didn't think of these things when I was slithering on the cold marble floor, clutching my head as the throbs of pains struck like a thousand needles – the price to pay for transient liberation. My hand reached out to the kitchen top. The glass fell and made a crashing sound; individual droplets scattering in all directions in slow motion. The sight of my wife at the door, shaking her head, already desensitised by the sight, thinking that there was I again, wallowing in self-created, illusionary freedom. But to me the freedom was real, as real as all these things. Why would you need to break free from being free?
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