I was taught that alcohol imposes grave danger to people. The best it brings is severe diseases and the worse, death. Alcohol must be something that is really dangerous to humans. But then again, it remains at hand’s reach to us.

My father is what they call an alcoholic. He chases dusk to dawn with bottles of beer and cigarette smoke. His breath smells stale with a crisp pang of threat and life-long detainment. His eyes are drooping with heavy bags of devastation under each one. Tired in the midst of the blazing sun. His round belly heavy with toxins protrudes against his dull fading skin. His complexion used to be a vibrant tint on the color palette but years drained him to the lifeless tones. Liquor has held him in prison for as long as I can remember. And just when I thought that things couldn’t be any worse, it did when my mother abandoned us. By then, I was left to my own devices. My father starved me from the attention his daughter was yearning for from the first man she ever loved in her life. I became just as worse as an alcoholic myself even without the influence of the liquor itself. I never knew alcoholism itself was communicable. I never knew liquor had such power over the humans.

And just like a prophecy long foretold, my father crumbled like cigarette butts and shattered like the glasses he threw.

But this was not always so.

At night, in the place between conciousness and sleep, I catch glimpses of dreams come true. I see the past, almost tangible. Almost. My father yearned for us, not beer. My mother stayed with us and leaving was not even a thought. I was like every typical child, not this. I still feel my childhood detained inside of me. I’d rather have it detained than have it taken away. I’d rather protect it, armor it.

For a long time I blamed alcohol for sending my father to his grave. I blamed it for my own demise. So I decided that since it already took the best of me, I might as well surrender to it. At three in the morning I ran downstairs and swept the remaining bottles my father left behind. Seven unopened bottles of rhum staring snakily at me. I watched my alleged murderers perform their hedious crime on me just like they did to my father. After four hours of expecting something dreadful, I remained untouched by the infamous liquid.

I cannot bring myself to draw a hand towards the bottles. But as I try to dwindle the space between me and the assassins, I saw my reflection bouncing back from the glass bottle. Inside it lie tranquil, the death drink. It was peaceful and calm as the morning ocean. It became very difficult to imagine how something to steady could cause one to crumble and shatter. It was weak like me. It cannot even get itself out of the bottle. Unless provoked by human hands.

If alcoholic drinks truly impose such dangers to humans, how come I remained unharmed? It’s either I was taught to put the blame on the wrong places or the seven bottles of beer before me are the most futile and merciful drinks I have ever encountered.

I was also taught that money turns people into demons. I wonder how demonic I could become.

Sometimes you just have to steal a fraction of time from your hectic schedule to spend on yourself, alone. Away from the buzzing of the crowd, away from naging books and screaming deadlines. Free from other voices but those soothing tones inside your head. Hands-off from stress and work residues. Just you and your own space. Every once in a while you need to be alone. You need to be able to listen to yourself because you’ve been understating your thoughts for too long. You’ve been too preoccupied with surrounding perceptions to the point of neglecting your own. You have something to say too. You have ideas to share, points to be made, questions to be asked, and answers to seek.

You have to find time to do the things you enjoy; the things you find relief in, those that provide the outlet for your troubles. You have to get rid of toxins, release worries, drop burdens, choose to forget in the occurence of a while. Being alone is not a treat you reward yourself with. it is a necessity often ignored.

You need to be alone because in those moments you steal from your schedule, you can find the assurance that you are still you; that you are not under the mandate and definition of other people. In those times, you are able to be true to yourself and manage to sustain it until your next visit. Being alone reminds you not to be solely dependent on others because in an overrated world, you refuse to be labelled. You refuse to be just a dummy on a game. And you have to remind yourself that you’re a unique puzzle piece, and in your absence, a breath-taking picture will never look right. It will not at all be breath-taking.

On the other hand, being alone is a million lightyears away from being lonely. They may both be tied to the strings of solitude but the latter is a pernicious imposer.