Four flickering candles in a dark bedroom, swaying to the smooth rhythm of jazz. Lightheaded taste buds, bathing in a light dry red sea also known as wine. One blank page and an almost alcoholic brain ready to spill the beans. Or the grapes, in this case. Synapses loose, hands clean, glass empty. Here we go again.
But. Yes, there's always a but. Again and again can be pretty exhausting. Sometimes, not always, I run out of things to say; the ideal scenario for intimidation by uncomfortable silence. But (yes), the truth is, there is always something left to say, whether you bravely utter the words out loud, or you childishly play a long lost game of hide and seek. Peek-a-boo. And the little kid inside of you giggles.
It's like living vicariously through someone else's life, even though you feel quite content with your own. It's a rare case of buy one get one free, neglecting the purchase that has already been made. It's that pinch of salt you add to make it taste better, when what you really need is a boulder. It's the romantic notion distinguishing love and independence, notwithstanding the distance setting them apart. It's the meaningful late night conversations between your heart and your brain, when one is hopeful and the other one is almost drunk.
It's a lot of things really. Mostly, it's about a fragile site under construction not yet open to the sober curious crowd.