Alcohol hasn't always affected me like that. Once it made me happy, and sometimes, when I forget, it still does. But there are so many wounds, so many scars. It becomes harder to be joyful.
One mustn't grumble and complain, since it's unseemly, as well as offensive (I have so much: a roof over my head, food and drink in my belly, a wife who loves me, children, and enough money to buy books and records). Yet once it was easier to bounce back from the stumbling blocks life throws up. Now I know that the world is far from perfect and in fact never will be perfect. I used to believe it could be made better, that things could be improved. Now I don't. I miss those whom I loved who have died or gone away. I miss my youth, my good health, my joie de vivre.
All this makes hope harder to hold on to. And without hope, what point is there?
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