EPT
All of the single folk let out an inward primal scream at the transient nature of the night; ‘Why don’t I have longer?’ He or she has eluded them again; that unknown person who could have made their life a little brighter. They believe this person to be a beaming halogen stream, whereas to their dismay, in their midst they have found only candles – this cannot be! It surely can’t be ineptitude on their part, it simply must just be time bearing down on them as a crude oppressor.
The slighted cries of the drunk lads pass by in the street as another day tumbles past, cast into obscurity by the waning indifference of the city. The sirens of police cars and ambulances wailing past are an accepted and mostly ignored element of the night. Time flies when they’re having fun, it also flies when they’ve escaped this world – transcendentally drunk and fuelled only by the allure and promise of further drink to be imbibed and more girls and boys to flutter past them within the hazy mess of the evening.
Auto-pilot is a term that could be applied to all of those black-out drunks, the ones who appear to have some basic functions still left at their disposal. Some wobble back and forth down a street alone, not knowing their direction, not even knowing the street. Their night is over. Others have smooth tongues, words flowing from them easily; pointed – knowing their exact desire, uninhibited but definitely slurring. They could be geniuses in their own right. The shiest of the bunch is now easily the most vocal, fumbling around like a somnambulist, yet, still, getting things accomplished. Little are these folk to even comprehend that they will not remember half, if any, of the words they have uttered, or the actions they have performed. Regrettably, the new people they have met in their haphazard nightlife journey will be also forgotten, non-entities mere hours later. It’s as if their memories have a minute shelf life - they live and die with each passing second.
The flourishes of bravado, the unrestrained mirth granted by the alcohol Gods is in full force. Yet it hasn’t got them anywhere, it hasn’t changed a thing – it’s just another day in the office of the party-goers, pub keepers and in the nights of the young and the old alike. Later on we’ll find them all grasping onto some latent set of desires; the addiction for more propels them onwards, encouraged as if by nympholeptic fuel. “Why has it ended this way? Why do we have to go home? I’m certain I’ll feel this way tomorrow!” they all tell themselves. Yet the feelings and openness they have now are waning like the notes in their once-full wallets.
Nothing has really changed in most occasions. Yet, this unrefined operation does serve some purpose on many nights. Perhaps one of these people has been further integrated into a group of peers; the raw initiation and acceptance that can only come from uninhibited excess. The jokes, laughs and truths that only emerge in such a state have now occurred. The bonds are forged; the person has shown their colours to the group. Maybe they have just started a new job and have felt sheepish in front of co-workers up to this point. This night has changed all that. Undeniably, they have all felt the unity within this hazy sphere, granted most graciously by the smiling bartender.
Maybe they have accomplished the rarest of feats; to have shared a true side of themselves with someone they actually admire or adore, to have accurately and successfully portrayed their self, their substance and their persona with another. If well accepted by the other side, then this truly is remarkable. All of the lads and all of the girls looking for one another dream of this moment; to have adequately put their personality across to someone they desire. The main thought here being, ‘If they knew everything about me and what I’m all about, then they’d surely love me.’ Failing this is a burgeoning reason to drink, to drink some more and to continue drinking into the night.
In sobriety, those without the confidence to do so tend to fumble awkwardly, tentatively with their words, gestures and expressions to someone they have just met. It is true of human nature for people to be guarded with their personal information, for fear of reprisal, embarrassment or saying the ‘wrong’ thing. It’s inherently visceral. However, silently, they know there are so many more words and ideas that they could posit. All manner of expression would flow naturally given a set of parameters with which to follow, or perhaps another drink will help? The awkwardness felt in these situations seems to be overcome by the knocking back of yet more mind-opening beverages. Sometimes it is more a demand of assumed necessity. Perhaps the person in question has just come from a week of heavy drinking and much less sleep. They are not themselves whilst sober anymore, they’ve trained their minds and personas well. They’ve trained them to be vastly different in this altered state – a state easily achieved. Weeks come and weeks go, the brain cells scream out in disdain, their recently fallen comrades surround them. This mental erosion is definitely a disadvantage to the free-flowing nature of speech and the confidence with which the person in question may have held a week prior, drunk or not. Perhaps they can no longer elucidate or engage the way they have done previously. ‘Maybe I need even more to drink this time? That’s why this night is not the night it could be! I’m going to make it happen!’
Finding a pivotal point on any given evening seems to be the lost cause that afflicts the night-time celebrators, yet they are too far-gone to even realise the cause is lost. The desire, whether it is animated verbal discussion, the discovery of a new friend or physical communication in a bedroom, is rarely granted, and is profoundly based on a few factors. For this desire to be fulfilled it takes heavy doses of circumstance alongside a mind of resolute and sharpened will; will being the only element which is self-regulated. In the drunken fog this self-regulation goes far awry, it’s not to be seen again until the hour of waking, when the lazy arm attached to the drained body flails out for the blaring alarm clock that has so rudely awoken the scrambled brain.
Alas, inevitably, what we do is what we all do; slaves to a conformity that takes any shape. Human nature is predicated by the ebb and flow of its surrounds. In this instance, each day is but a coming and going of the same themes – perhaps one or two minds have learned something on this route; but the masses continue to learn nothing at all, and continue onward with the search, seeking for that undefined element. It seems they are forever willing to put forth an endless supply of money, hope, dignity, time and reprehensible amounts of brain-damage to find it.
I know I am.
