A thousand miles from home.

He had finally reached the end. Sipping on his bottom shelf whiskey, he realized that his life no longer held any real value. He had drank himself into a coma every night, realizing each time that he was only sealing his fate with each drink. His body was aching, his spirit was in a dark place, and his heart was no longer beating for a reason. He simply existed, nothing more. He prayed every night for God to finally take his life….though every morning he would wake up in tears, distraught that God hadn’t heard his cries. Every day was a struggle, an attempt to simply make it to the next drink. The evenings were lonely; he simply searched for ways to keep occupied so that his mind wouldn’t wander into the darkness yet again. He knew that his life had to be coming to an end; such a downhill trot could only go so far before the bottom was reached.

Yet he was still alive, and there was a small flame inside of him that burned simply with the hope that God kept him in this world for a reason. How could it be this way, though? The repetitive nature of each day, the sorrow that built up with every moment that passed, left him in a state of confusion. While he hoped and prayed for meaning, no God would allow His child to endure such heartache. After all, how could a life like this be a life worth living? A piece of him longed to finally take the last breath, though the coward that he was couldn’t comprehend the idea of death. Suicide, then, was ruled out early on. So, he was always left to endure yet another day. He hated himself, and thought the world undoubtedly saw the same ugly creature that he saw when he looked in the mirror.

It was comical to him that he focused on vanity for so long, and built his body up for many years, that he had forgotten to love his own soul. Now even his appearance was fading with age and stress, and he had little left to love about himself. Perhaps that had been the reason he focused on vanity on the first place; he never liked who he was behind the fragile shell that others saw. Now that the brittle mask was finally breaking into pieces, how could there be anything left that he could love?

What made matters worse was his remaining effort to focus on what little vanity he had left. The fool had never learned his lesson. His mindset revolved around the hope that while looks faded, perhaps there was a chance that he could keep trying to improve his physical shell, so that others might accept him for just a little longer, despite the inner deterioration that was only gaining speed.

He sat at the bar nearly every night, ordering one drink after another. Eventually he would come to the inevitable conclusion that another drink would only make matters worse, though he was always reluctant to call it quits…closing his tab simply meant that he would have to return to his lonely apartment, where there was little to do but wallow in his own self pity. It would reach the point where he was drinking not to seek peace, but simply to keep himself busy.

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