So Gone (Ed Sheeran)

Living life like I'm giving up.

   Every night was the same. When the darkness became too hard to handle, when the night felt too cold, I needed to feel this rush, this pain in my throat.

   I always went to the same bar. They gave me as many drinks as I wanted because they knew I wasn't a violent drunk. I usually just felt sorry for myself, sat on a chair until I could hardly remember my name. Then, I'd leave and stumble home. Or not home, depending of how bad it was.

   Every morning was the same. I'd wake up, my head throbbing so badly that I'd wish I was dead. I'd, then, hate myself for ever wishing to be dead, smoke three times and drink four coffees before noon.

   I was used to this routine. I even wondered if it was good to always do the same things, over and over again because it became pointless. But I guessed it was the only thing keeping me sane lately.

   Could I still say that I lived a life? Was it really living if I didn't do anything exciting at all, if I couldn't and didn't want to feel anything anymore? Surely it wasn't. At least, it didn't feel like it.

   For now, the sun had left the sky, letting the moon light up our night. And I felt alone. Again. I hated feeling alone, because I knew that I had been so miserable lately that nobody wanted to stay by my side. I had been awful to everyone. But what was done couldn't be changed, right?

   I took my sweatshirt, keys and wallet and got out of my apartment, taking the same route I always took.
   Arriving at the bar, I sat where I always sat and waited for the barman to come over. At this point, they all knew who I was.

"Hi Ed." He said.

"Hello Eric. The usual, please." I answered, not even bothering to look up. I could bet he looked disappointed. They all did eventually.

"You should really do something. It isn't healthy to keep doing this every single day." He whispered, before giving me my drink.

"Yeah. I'll think about that."

   I put my earphones in, not wanting to hear any laughter. I guessed I couldn't stand the fact that my life was falling apart but others' were full of happiness.

   There was usually that one group of at least five friends in the back of the room. They came here four times a week, laughing as if there was no tomorrow. All five of them but one. A girl. Something was off about her. She'd drink way more than the others and she didn't have that spark in her eyes, the one you have when you're enjoying whatever you are doing. I knew that because our gazes had met a couple of times over the months, but we had never talked.

   I didn't want to see that girl tonight, because I somehow saw myself in her. And I hated to see I couldn't do anything to either get better or make her feel better.

   According to Eric I should stop drinking so much, but every time I looked at my glass, that I thought I had downed, it was filled up again. I almost pointed it out to him but decided not to. He had a job and was doing it, quite well to be honest.

   I got up after a while, the ground slowly moving under my feet. I let a tip beside my empty glass and walked out of the place which should have been forbidden to not mentally able people. It was often complained about that drunks ruined the mood, but everyone had a story and a way to face it, even if it wasn't the right one.

   On my way home, or rather where I thought was my home, I saw a man playing the guitar, sat on the ground. It must've been 2am but he kept playing, not bothering to look up at people with pleading eyes, because he must have understood that they were all selfish in this town. Or perhaps too in debt themselves to help someone who could barely do worse.