Half chocolate milk, half coffee in a pint glass. Coffee thats been burned on a hot plate all afternoon before sitting and turning cold into the night. Drink it down half way and refill with Kahlua. This is how one keeps on living.
Sitting in front of the computer, staring at climbing equipment, canyoneering gear - Ropes and harnesses and carabiners and dreams of great distances. Expanses of Earth, cliffs rising distant above, roost for falcons and hopes. Great emptinesses of rock dropping away, below and into the side of a mountain hundreds of feet, into the depths of man's own dreams.
Drinking in the caffeinated hopes, the clouded formations of a mind numbed by optimism. The alcohol an attempt to starve off the gnawing hope, and inability to be broken. Opening up the man to his own defeat, breaking him of the rotten-toothed grinning hope given to the world. Maybe just a little more and he can fall on his torn hands, rest his broken feet on his knees, and give in to the greatest desire - The desire to give up. Weepingly, joyfully, bloody mouthed and empty eyed, letting go of everything.
But booze leaves the bloodstream by morning, and stubborn hope lingers. Dreams and optimism snap and bite at the heels of demons, driving them back for another day. Another sunshine to shadow run of silent, determined, fight against the pain of hope, and desolation of despair. The sun shines a hopeful sorrow onto the dreamer, and he hunts for happiness in the shadows of weakness and despair. Goodness might feel awful, and awfulness might feel good, but in the world in between, a dreamer cant make up his mind.