I’m pissed and sunburned, late at night, speakers resonating with fury. I’m wearing my blue vest and no shirt, but the felt liner is cozy. I’m still pissed. Not cause of her, but because of the fury of the nighttime thunderstorm and the weight of the world. I have three glasses in front of me.
Vodka in a glass, mountain dew in a can, and water in an insulated plastic mug. I juggle all three in a desperate chug fest. After a few seconds, all three are imbibed, I get a little bit drunker, and my mouth sings with salty sweetness.
My lips still form a frown. The music is so damn loud I can barely think to type or understand. It’s not a defined hatred, just a bathing anger of irrational seething fury. Heat expelled like a-bomb radiation from my blistered skin, desperation and ignored violence.
If I define the seasons by the overwhelming mood I underwent during that time, this summer is bliss. Its nonthinking, nonresponsive euphoria. Just a state of passion and summer sun, smiles, THC and alcohol. It’s sunny rides on the lake, easy classes, high school sweethearts, graceful ballads, and city walks. No pressure. Responsibility so light it doesn’t weigh down on my shoulders like gravity.
And so tonight is a tribute to harder times, to sadder feelings and the golden desperation. Biting lip fury of the past, cause perhaps the present is too good.
I’m getting soft, clammy, and weak – soaking up the sun and unfulfilled.
As three AM approaches, and I know tomorrow will be another perfect day, I squeeze my eyeballs in my liquid head and think of the fall. When the plateau of bliss begins to fade. When the euphoria subsides, and I push myself through trials and pain. When my grin does not cover my entire face, but is a slight smirk. And I’m alone in the wilderness.
Alone, that’s what I drink to. What the cool summer breeze alludes to.
A different time, a different me.