You Get So Alone At Times That It Just Makes Sense

by Charles Bukowski

her life is boring and rather common but most are—mine is too except when lifted by whiskey

“nothing matters and we know nothing matters and that matters…”

the courage it took to get out of bed each morning to face the same things over and over was enormous.

it was a world full of drunks and writers and drunk writers. and so I became a starving drunk instead of a starving writer.

it took me a long time to find the most interesting person to drink with: myself,

the freeway is a circus of cheap and petty emotions, it’s humanity on the move, most of them coming from some place they hated and going to another they hate just as much or more.

agony sometimes changes form but it never ceases for anybody.

well, I’ve gotten this far and that’s plenty.

then comes the great and peaceful moment: sitting alone and pouring that quiet drink. the world is better without them.

but it does seem the more we drink the better the words go.

I love you but don’t know what to do.

don’t we realize the peace of aging gently?

what matters most is how well you walk through the fire.