Post Holiday Blues

They keep saying that what goes up must come down. I keep saying that who ever coined that phrase should eat shit and die.

Last week in it's entirety had me sprawled out on a beach donning shades, sun block and bits of lycra that only the daring would call a swimsuit. Add to that a good book, sunset dips in the ocean, moon gazing in the pool, good friends, great food, booze, music, parties, conversation and you win any which way.

The thing is, it never really felt much like an "up", it just felt right. And now the post holiday blues. Does this happen to everyone? It just all rushed by so fast and the next thing you know it's Monday and you're dragging your ass to work only to have the realization dawn upon you that you hate your bloody job and all you want to do is go back to the beginning of that perfect fucking week and keep reliving it over and over and over again like some cheezy Groundhog day flick without Bill Murray or the Charmed ones.

This is why I hate holidays, the aftermath anticlimax kills me like I could never express in words. At least when I keep working like a rabid dog on E I have this fuel of self destructive momentum that keeps me running. Hating my life, everything in it and wishing that I was never born works for me. To take that away, to tease me with a borrowed heaven rips the bare intricate threads of my very being into shreds.

There was this one moment I refuse to forget; Beach party at Why Not, Somewhere in Hik, Thursday 13th April 2006, Sometime after midnight. Sitting there on the coast of the island, the sand in between my toes, the sea at my feet, the sweet stench of smoke scathing my lungs as I puff away like a chimney, looking up at the fullest moon I've seen in a long time watching it cast it's silver sheen on the crest of this beautiful tide. Just for that moment I whispered to myself You're almost out of this country. Just take a few more steps. Close your eyes and you're free. I really whispered and I'm relieved now that no one was around to hear me talking to myself. That I was completely sloshed at the time didn't help the logic of this argument any.

That's when a wave decides to whisk away my flip flops and some imbecile thinks it would be rocking to dole out Summer of '69 into our unsuspecting ears. Rat bastards. So ends my moment. Then I clumsily pull myself up, sans flip flops (which is okay I had another pair at the hotel), and stumble along looking for someone I know who's standing in the nearest vicinity to Z. I nod and pretend to listen as I try to position myself in such a manner so I can glance at Z through the corner of my eye but quickly turn away the very second he cocks his head. I had just met him earlier in the day so I was trying to keep my drunken slurring to a minimum by not talking directly at him. But more on him later; he requires a whole different post.

For reasons inexplicable this last holiday to everyone seems to have been tinged with some different kind of euphoric air. Come Monday we're a changed people… Until Tuesday. I can't figure if I'm more pissed that the holiday ended or just that the holiday ending means I don't meet Z anymore. It also means that the blues are bound to end too and in the mean while it helps to write about it as I endure a job I've lost love for, toss in a bed I've not fallen asleep in since Saturday and suffer the cage that is my mind.