Swallowing My Pride

How did I get here?

My head is stuffed with cotton. The hallway, is spinning lazily counter-clockwise as it breathes in and out.

That’s what I should do. Breathe in.

Breathe out.

Okay, that seems to help. That feeling in my stomach is going away. Just keep breathing. In. Out.

Let’s try to stand up.

…

This may be harder than I expected. How about knees first. Okay there we go. Keep breathing.

Exhale. My head is up and my eyes are closed. Inhale. Eyes open again. I’m still spinning, or the hallway is spinning, or we both are, but atleast I’ve got my head up. That’s something to be proud of.

Ha! Listen to me, talking about pride after a night spent sleeping in an empty hallway. I think.  If I were sober, I’d scorn myself. But I’m not sober, so I’m filled with pity and loneliness. I doubt I found the compassion I seek in the feet that stepped over my body last night. No commiseration from the bodies that stood around me in bemused delight and minimal concern.

How did I get here?

How did I get to a place where no one cares? You know, I don’t blame them. I would have stopped, stared and carried on just like the rest of them had it been someone else lying on the cold floor. They’re not heartless bastards who want nothing else than to draw cocks on my forehead. Rather, they tag my body because they do not know how else to deal with a situation that they should never have come accustomed to. A lifestyle I should never have been accustomed to.

But here I am, on my knees, my head bowed before a trashcan, spilling my guts out in a greenish-brown stew that once must have been my pride and their compassion.