The one who'd been saved...

He sat at home alone and riveted by stress. Looking through his
window he listened to the merriment from the gathering of friends
next door. They bobbed and weeved in laughter, leaning on each other
for support as they told jokes. Those days of free time had been
over for some time. He believed in sacrifice. But some nights he
longed for a second chance. Had he not, made the decisions so long
ago, he too might be able to laugh, as they laughed, in idle conversation.
It had been three years since the day he had lost the battle with
alcohol. He had crawled into the church, a broken soul irreperable
by the human hand. Parched so long, from a thirst that elluded his
every thought. With this crippling delema he had approached the cleric
statue of a man with scabrous lips, crying. Even his tears reaked of
alcohol. Trembling he begged for a miracle. It had been three years since
that baffling obssession to drink had been expelled. Now his life
was solely dedicated to alltruism as they called it. He was no philanthropist.
No gurru on spiritual matters. Yet now his own life was no longer his
own. A life, once littered with sef-centeredness now stood completely
absent of self. Mildly you could observe the remnants of a personality
exiting abreast the badly-acted sintax of his spiritual one-liners.
Before his entire life had been himself. Now he drown helpless in a
sea of selflessness.