I drank whisky yesterday. The deep, lightly stirred liquid was throwing shades of a red-orange while staring at me from the glass. Funny how the mind remembers and makes up things which are of the least importance. Especially when you want to focus on a single decision, on a single movement of your arm. I remembered having cleaned the glass thoroughly and the cheap crystal shining with purple shades in the late afternoon sun. I remembered waiting for it to dry, while eagerly measuring the kitchen floor with giant steps. 1 meter, 2 meters, 2 meters and a half. 1 meter, 2 meters, 2 meters and a half. The sun kept turning its face to the west.
Life is moments, its liquid and vulnerable joints amazingly drag you through the day, until you bury your cheek in the cold faces of the pillows. Most of the times you just slide, go with the flow and the inertia you so reliably built over all these years keeps you going. But sometimes, only sometimes it’s not enough anymore. Or, on the contrary, it’s too much. Not enough whiskey to darken your thoughts, too much screaming out of the television set. Not enough money to spend on the material, too much light oozing thorough the morning windows. Not enough sounds to make the voices shut up, too many chords of your spirit frozen for too long.
When the too much sees eye to eye with the not enough. It’s that moment when you open your eyes. It’s that single moment when instead of breathing oxygen you breathe the pure essence of AIR. It’s that freaking single moment when you touch the kitchen table and you feel the coolness of the glass against your trembling fingers. And your fingers are trembling because you had already opened your eyes, because you had already had that single intake of life. Intoxicating, nauseating, 2 mm away from lethal. Head-spinning, skin-crawling, earth-shaking.
I guess that’s what goes under the common name of inspiration.
The joints of life could just be days and nights and days and nights. Like they were until yesterday, until now. Or they could be real joints, they could connect the trunk to the branches and to the leaves. While the greatest vision of the tree is painted. And the earth underneath it is soaking with strength. Will you let it be lost? Will you close your eyes again?
I wanted to drink whiskey yesterday. I remember having cleaned the glass thoroughly and the cheap crystal shining with purple shades in the late afternoon sun. But somehow someone had poured poison in the bottle. It tasted sweet and the sweetness of its taste slowly ate away at the edges of my conscience.