i2Culture

The Worst Reason

Tierney Watkinson
Contributor

W: dress in our weekend
uniform, and gather together
to fire shots of whiskey and tequila
at each other, friendly fire to drown
the loneliness and fears of the week
in a muffled buzz. We drink to be
numb, to dull the sharp edges of
the remaining shrapnel from that
disaster that we did not, can never,
dig out and fully exorcize from our
bodies, from our memories. We drink
to forget the moments that make us
cringe, that move the broken bits to
cut deeper, closer and closer to our
hearts.

To stop time.

Because if we can somehow
stop time, remain immobile,
maybe we won't have to feel.

And it hurts.

When the liquor hits our system and
blurs the lines, the lines between
everything, the lines that keep us

all separate and contained, we are

at peace. We are one. We are stuck
in this moment. Yesterday never
happened. Tomorrow never will.
Here and now is all we can see and
we are all drunk here, drunk off of

each other and the flashing lights and

the beating of synthetic drums like
hearts resonating through the floor,
weakly echoed by our stumbling feet
moving to and against the rhythm
of solid sound. We believe there is
only love here, comradery in the
energies of our fellow dancers.

We drink until time is no longer
linear or even circular or ending
but cuts in and out like weak radio,
smothers us like a torn patchwork
blanket of “last night” that we will
try to stitch back together in our
sobriety. We don’t care that we are
wasting our time. Time is pain. Time
is cruel. Time is a thief and will
force us to move and we are trying
to remain immobile, remember? But

we don’t remember. We don’t want to
be alone with the thoughts of those
who left us behind. Those that we

are trying to leave behind, those that
loved us. Those that caused us pain.

We drink to forget we are somehow
responsible. We are not ourselves,
in this state of being. We cannot

be held accountable. We are only
human. We only live once. We don’t
have to feel, if we don’t want to. We
shouldn’t have to feel this hurt.

We drink until we sleep on our
tripping feet. Until we collapse.
Until someone takes us home.

Then we wake up.

And the memories come crashing
back. Our mouths are too dry, but we
are drowning. Echoes of drumbeats
like pounding hearts are stuck
ricocheting in our brains. Empty shot
glasses are on the floor like discarded
bullet casings. Physical pain, because
the shrapnel has burrowed deeper.

We never stopped time.

And it still hurts.

CF

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