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Seems weird to write.

This used to be such a natural expression.

Now it's forced out of me. My hands don't seem to work right.

I'm afraid of what I'll say.  It's been a long time since I've thought that.

Who cares?  Who is looking at your quivering hands?

Who is listening to your quiet gasping breath?

Who is watching to see whether or not you make it home in one piece?

Screw them.  Stay focused, Tim.

I take a sip of whiskey and I reach out for... for what?

What am I reaching for?  God?  Humanity?  Failure?  Success?

Instead it's a black nothingness.  I can't seem to make it or lose it.  I feel proud and embarrassed.  Jubilant and depressed.  Like I'm just holding the phone for someone who is more important.

Wish they would get back so I can release my grip on this useless receiver.