Fat raindrops like glass beads bounce on the sea. Submerged to my eyes, I am one with the water. And though the sky has fallen like a steel sheet on the horizon and the light has disappeared, there is clarity in this day, and a return of balance.
Alcohol is like the gift delivered by Circe to Odysseus and his fellows. Forgetfulness is its boon. But time is kept, and the story told by those who remember. And therein lies the rub. Should we leave out the odyssey's lost months, we would surely truncate the narrative, dininsh the voyage and lose the point of coming home.
The day of crisis has passed, but not forgotten. With the alcoholic as with any addict, there are cycles of binge and balance, treacherous for those who strive for balance. And so, we put these days in parentheses. (No final solution, just one day of coping.)