Tactical Ceasefire

One could call it an addiction.

The sound of bass pumping off speakers the size of a human torso, its pitch black case clinging on a nicotine-tarred wall; the glistening bubbles of alcohol floating on a half-empty bottle of beer, to spot the happy horse will tell you everything is no illusion; strangers grinding with their hips on the floor; their arms outstretched, allowing the house music spun put them in a state of ecstasy; hands over one's chest, squeezing, stroking, as two lonely souls merge on the ledge; and lasers mounted on the ceiling darting each and everyone as they sink into the night with reckless abandon.

These scenes, playing over and over my head draw me from the cocoon of sobriety. One night a week, to return to the dancing grounds is a freedom granted to me.

But tonight, the urge seem less intense than in the weeks that came before. Something must have triggered the retreat, yet the culprit eludes me. It must have been the absence of invitations from friends conjuring a drinking spree in Timog. The reason perhaps is the overall mood of gloominess casting a long dark shadow among my brethren.

On my way home earlier, I felt the shivers leaving a cold chill on my restless body. A part, desired to follow the trail leading to where the music is played. A part sought refuge in the still, somber corner of my room. I chose to cast a dice and let reason pervades my decision, to which are my contentions:

To shake off the rigidness of my order I imposed unto me the whole week.

To remind myself of a life beyond the toils and turbulence of home and work.

To open the possibilities

of
finding
someone

But with the drill still fresh in my head, to follow my addiction would lead to nothing. The act itself already satiates my reasons.

So I went home weary and defeated. The strangeness of giving up a night for reckless abandon is new to me. The sullen silence of lying on my bed, dreaming of things that could have been had I decided to go where the flashing lights and bouncing sounds are would remain a mystery until I resume my nocturnal habit.

And the memory of the drill will still haunt me like it did in the nights after it happened - sinking me into further depths of guilt and immense longings.

But this is my resolution. The week will end, probably, without having even a drop of beer quenching my thirst.

"The addiction could pass for some other time." Bitterly, I accepted the verdict.

"For now, let the sudden cold turkey shake me off from dependence to my weekend night delusions." After which, I shut the door tight and quietly coiled in my room.