The curse of ages

Sip, by sip it carries us away, into oblivion.

Sip, by sip it robs us, of our drive, our motivation, our desire to do more, to be more, than we are.

Sip, by sip we fall, wanting for just one thing: more, of it, of its rush in our blood.

And so, this is the way it is with alcohol, the drug of ages, a curse of all ages, that we can’t get enough.

Day, by day we medicate ourselves with it, possessed by it, become someone else with it in our veins, in our brains, under its insipid influence.

Drop, by drop it kills us.

For, sip, by sip, all those things we were going to do today, we put off, for tomorrow. Once its warmth reaches our head, we become sufficiently numb, to reason, clear thinking, common sense. Energy drains from our body, reflexes slow, swimming through a fog and you think you know the way but can’t see the road ahead, how you will feel later, tomorrow, next week, next year, all the things you did, you thought, swimming through the fog, keeping your head above water.

But with that first sip of alcohol, it all seems ok again. Not to worry, have another drink.

No one escapes from its clutches, this alcohol, not even those who never touch a drop, such is its hold on us, on society.

Not the teenage girl who finds herself naked beside a boy she just met, trying to think the next morning of his name and had they been careful? She can’t remember.

Not the wife who covers another bruise beneath her eye where alcohol causes the one she loves to fly into a rage.

Not the punter at the pub who, buoyed by the confidence alcohol gives him, bets the thousand dollars he can not afford on a sure thing, only to lose the lot.

Not the artist who paints a thousand beautiful pictures in his mind but is too drunk to pick up a brush and make a start, one stroke.

Not the friend at the receiving end of a vitriolic tirade, where bitter years are sprayed forth with the force of honesty that only alcohol can bring. Truth serum. The stuff you never knew.

Not the passenger left dead by a driver who should never have got behind the wheel.

Not the mother of a son who killed someone with a single punch to the head in a late night brawl. For what? A girl? A bump on the shoulder in a crowded club?

Not the children, ignored, forgotten, unnurtured, who get in the way of the next beer, gin, scotch, wine, who see it all unfold before them, at weddings, parties, barbecues, in front of the TV, cooking dinner, relaxing, unwinding, socialising, letting our hair down, who see it all and can’t wait for it to be their turn.

For the curse to continue, from one generation to the next.

We let it, because alcohol has us all in its grip.