There’s a bottle of whiskey standing in my porch. It isn’t mine because it isn’t empty, that much I know but not much else. After making it mine my eyes stray to the top of the hills and my mind enters this state of deep dormancy as the cold wind burns my skin to red. I like to attribute this dormant state of mine to artistic sensibility or some kind of profound connection with nature even though I am fully aware of the now empty bottle of whiskey, or vodka, sometimes both, usually standing at arm’s reach.
As a wake up three hours later, head pounding, I can hear the gentle dripping that sets the mood for a thunderstorm. The hills are now covered in thick mist.
The thing is I’m FEELING quite sober right now so if you want metaphors or beautifully crafted allegories, maybe even a pretentious synesthesia, write them yourselves! Here, hear the thunder. Can you hear it rumbling after the climatic flashes of light that fill up the now darkening skies with mumbled energy? Can you? Then do it yourselves because I’m nothing but a drunken old fool, 18 years old as of now, which has nothing to offer but illusionary sensibility and a superficial knowledge of simple words. I’m done.