Bukowski once said that drinking is a kind of suicide. Throwing yourself against a wall and sort of dying. But returning afterward. I think there’s merit in that thought. How many suicides do we attempt on a daily basis? We kill everything that is real and truthful, in about a million ways. We kill ourselves daily without even knowing that we are doing it. We drink ourselves to death. We edit ourselves to death. We think ourselves to death. We seek a route to unfeeling. We remain ignorant to seekable truths. We vomit opinions that perpetuate ignorance. We claim to be real, when in fact all that others see of us are illusions. We waste our lives censoring the real stuff, and we replace it with gilded monstrosities. We scold the child that speaks unpleasantly and praise the politician. We listen only to respond. We disengage from the world around us then proceed to believe we are experts on the world around us. We are little more than a contradiction. Somedays I believe that all of living is just a prettier version of Frankenstein’s monster. Suicide. It’s all suicide. Ironically, at least the drinking kind of suicide makes us honest. The rest is just a bunch of half truths, deceptions, and lies. Yet, we criticize the drunk and praise the gilded masses. And call it living.