First basement show ^_~
I rolled seven vacant bottles to the corner of the room, maneuvering around my roommate, who was sprawled out on the floor in a drunken Shavasana. It was the same process; get our fill in, tidy the place up, and repeat on nights that play out indefatigably. I knew that several bodies were curled up under thin blankets on the living room floor. We chose to ration our bill expenses by providing plenty of layered garments and blankets when the coming of winter is as harsh as She is.
I made my way back to the mattress and brought a lit, home-rolled cigarette to my lips in small intervals. The mist of the rain coming in through the window screen hydratedmy skin, welcoming me back to semi-consciousness. Luckily, the pounding in my skull was mild. It usually was after a brief time of rest, then the alcohol gradually becomes active in my blood again.
Every moment that elapsed on the clock disappeared into intangible space. The Rivieras played at a soft volume from the speakers. It was the only sound that clashed into the silence of a concluding night. The world seemed to tune out when your thoughts ascend from an internal chamber of suppression. A fifth of whiskey and the return to reality has the potential to ignite a chemical reaction in your mind that causes memories to flutter like birds in heat, preying on the depths of a void.
Memories of her meadow-detergent, hope-pervaded aroma, and the stale air that lingers in the cracks of the door she exited for the last time.
Memories of when my efforts fell short and when perseverance shined through.
Memories of when I called my friends back and when I extensively smothered myself in a storm of words and illusion.
These unsuspecting mental purges were among my favorite irregularities, but I wondered how something can be so inconceivably beautiful and indescribably agonizing, how anything can be that way at all.
Ancient Castle, Sintra, Portugal, at Blue Pueblo