The first few glasses during the magic hour before the sun has fully set and the sky is full of soft blues, pinks and red leave me brimming with creative magic. This is a balancing act—to keep this magic whilst not tipping the scale into heavy worldliness.
With wine I can crawl to a safe corner of my psyche and daydream about bygones and hellos; I dream up wild imagery. New and exciting ideas come in lulled waves to crash into an “A-HA” moment simply to float away with each glass until I’m left wondering where my life has taken me and the unavoidable sadness stirs its slumbering head, blinks, and smiles a devilish smile—silently encroaching like a camera shutter that failed to fully open—black edges.
Oft times I walk this knife’s edge with ease. Although, the most stalwart of heart cannot remain vigilant at all times; I have abandoned my post on several occasions, faltered and slowly sank down splitting myself in half. The dragging weight of my emotional nadir—the Somber half—sees its chance and strikes at being the whole; a low born, but formidable bastard warrior king. On the ‘morrow when head a-pounding, Bliss—the zenith—conducts a valiant siege; trebuchets freely launching boulders of lust for all that life has to offer coupled with contentment against Somber’s defenses. After many tedious hours, cracks appear around midday on the walls and in strides Bliss with head held high, handing out austere justice, and rightfully taking his seat upon the throne. Sadness sleeps.
A teeter totter between water and wine plays out with the rising and setting of the sun. A delicate cadence. The giant scales are slowly pulled down indicating the time is nigh. In youthful rebellion against the falling sun I raise a glass to the heavens, almost as if single-handedly raising the moon. Yes, it is high time for wine time.
A hangover is like the life cycle of an insect. Quick in terms of human life, but every inch and hour is felt, slowing time akin to the perception of a honey bee. A sweet buzzing in the head.
To live a glorious night. To die and be reborn again. To know that one is alive by each and every painful step. No amount of bacon can cure the morning wine blues; the cycle isn’t complete. Blood becomes mud, mud becomes self loathing, self loathing becomes tiresome, and finally life happens anew; the Bacchanalian prophet gesticulates and hovers his bejeweled hand over the cistern and viola!—wine. Once again, the sun will soon set—glorious, precious life!
It’s high time for wine time.