Tequila Freewrite (Warning: Stream of Consciousness)

A decade ago, or perhaps more, the words always came easy. There was so much to say and no voice strong enough with which to say it that the page presented the only proper receptacle. Slowly, but surely, as less needed to be said—or so I told myself—a distance grew between paper and pen that now, so many days between now and then, seems insurmountable.

At first, it was the result of happiness. All the words from before were rooted in sadness, despair, hatred, loathing (mostly of self). The vocabulary of joy was foreign, unknowable—as if a man with no knowledge of Aristotle or Plato were suddenly thrust into Athens circa 500 BCE and expected to know the noun declensions of ancient Greek. Yet, our capacity for language is such that a few weeks in a foreign culture should suffice to allow at the least basic utterances: this I expected after time spent in bliss, but still the words to express my jubilance existed only outside of experience.

And then came the despair unrealized, buried in the comforting embrace of a lover too good for one’s self. Though downtrodden in some ways as before, the words no longer existed, having been erased by the bliss of time preceding, however brief. Here, though, I found words vocalized, for the first time, in the absence of light found inside a dive of a pizza bar on a nearby street corner. Philosophy, as it was meant to be done, you could say. A meeting of minds, often in agreement, other times vehemently not, spiced by the sweet lubrication of beautifully ruby pints of Guinness. A new form of happiness, amid the destitute nature of earthly things, such as money and shelter.

Over time, paths parted, and the only semblance of what once brought sustenance existed in the chemical composition of alcohol, in many of its forms (but almost never vodka). With every sip, memories of the pleasant times of days lost forever but also a blessed numbing of the mind that served—only occasionally—to dull the pain of loss. Though they were needed then (and now) more than ever, the words were gone. Those vocal were first, as they were never natural, but with them soon went the written, fleeing as a shadow flees approaching light.

Still they elude, captured only with the impetus of liquor in quantities unacceptable for one of such anemic body mass. And they say nothing, as they do here and above, as though their mere existence is enough now that the castle has sunk into the swamp.