Kafkaesque (A Monologue)

 You know… I used to hate this. [holds up the cigarette, watching the smoke dance]

Never saw the point of it. Never used to drink this much either. Thought it was foolish—weak, even.

[Glances at the whiskey bottle, half-empty. The fire crackles—perfect, almost mocking in its stillness.]

People always ask, "So what happened?" Like change needs a tragedy. Like something had to break for me to become like this.

But... nothing happened.

And that’s the cruelest part.

Nothing happened. Not for lack of trying. I showed up. I gave effort. I loved. I hoped. I pushed. I planned. And still… nothing changed. Nothing got better.

I’ve got a job. It pays just enough to crawl to the next payday. I eat, sleep, work... survive. And when that’s done—I drink. I drink until the silence in my head is louder than the noise outside.

Then I sober up. And I think.

That’s what I hate about being sober.

The thinking.

It creeps in, telling me lies that sound like hope. “Try harder.” “Love better.” “Apply there.” “Be smarter.” “You’re not done yet.”

And for a second, I almost believe it.

But hope is a cruel jailor, Lindo. And those thoughts? They’re locks on a cage I can’t break out of. So I drink. Because in that numbness, there’s something familiar. Something... like home.

[Takes a long sip, voice quieter now]

And then the nights come. That’s when the thinking stabs the deepest. Quiet house. Loud mind. I barely sleep. I fear the dark now. Not because of what’s in it... but because of what’s in me.

I tried, Lindo. God, I tried.

But nothing worked. And when nothing works long enough, you start to believe maybe you are what’s broken.

I’m alone most of the time now. That... that kind of loneliness? It’s not silent. It screams. It makes you question everything. And the worst part? I don’t even let people in anymore. What’s the point? No one stays.

They call me a drunk. An addict. A waste.

But everyone’s addicted to something, aren’t they? Pleasure. Power. Pain. Money. We all cling to something just to feel alive. Mine just comes in a bottle and burns on the way down.

And then there’s the job. The paycheck. Just enough to keep the cycle going. Work. Drink. Smoke. Sleep. Repeat.

You told me I’ve got potential.

You say something can still happen...

But that’s what scares me the most.

What if things do work out?

I’ve lived so long in the ruins, I wouldn’t know how to breathe in a world that isn’t falling apart.

Losing... giving up... that's familiar. That’s safe.

Success? Healing? Happiness?

That’s the unknown.

And I don’t know if I have it in me to start hoping again—just to break all over once more.

[He looks up at the ceiling of the dim bar, a silent weight pressing down.]

So... we drink.

We drink the night away.

Because in this stillness, this fading light—there's no more trying.

There's just... the end of the bottle.