A writer is the sum of his/her experiences.
As a writing enthusiast, I decided to have an unforgettable night.
(This is a product of both fiction and reality)
Last night, I found myself grasping a bottle of beer, strangers filling up the void that surrounded me. I stared at them as they danced to the lively music, letting the alcohol steal my wheel. The drink flowed faster in my thoughts than it did in my blood, and the music slowly got louder. I stood up, and in a blink of an eye, I blended with the crowd, raising our fists and swaying our hips to every beat.
I need more ‘orange juice’.
I need to fly as I crawl back to the filthy attic within my core.
Oh look at the stool on the wall!
Look at the void stored in this hidden place.
I think I need the ‘red goat milk’ in that shot glass.
I think I need to fill this up with meaning.
This is the best night of my life.
Blank. I feel blank.
Space and murmurs.
Oh look at all those pineapple juices.
Oh wow, we are bumper cars!
Read my watch! Read my watch!
The world merging,
I finally reached home, the warmth of silence taking over the cold of the void. I had a cup of coffee, looking at the busy highway that indifferently existed across the road. By that time, I already found myself trapped in that attic filled with cobwebs and dust. It was a lonely place that made me wish I had more ‘orange juice’. I tried to find any means of escape, but with only coffee in my hand, I knew I was doomed.
It began with simple questions that asked the what’s: What exactly was my goal this night? Was it really for the benefit of (my poor) literature or was it another desperate attempt to patch the bruises in my core? Very slowly, the questions became how’s and why’s until every thought converged like a wide paper crumpled to its smallest size.
With my brain fueling itself, I then realized how some of us resort to temporary bursts of ecstasy to fill the attics of our permanent reality. Time does not wait for anyone and surely, these bursts of ecstasy would create wonderful memories to look back to. But for people like me who hid attics in their damaged brains, the question of whether or not escapism would successfully keep us from jumping off an 18-storey building lingered.
The skies became blood.
With the hint of a new day breaking, I found myself grasping an empty cup of coffee, waiting in that attic for a source of light.
Perhaps another ‘orange juice’?