three nights. (disquiet, beer and some reflections)

I'm trying to collect and piece together fragments of the last three nights; the fading and the weird convoluted design of the tapestry by those three recent evenings because it has the consistency of a dream right now, which I hope would get clearer as I write.

The first night was a celebration of some sorts and I think a prologue for reflection. Though we kept dipping into the stories of the past years, how our paths had went, how others twisted and turned, we still came back to the possibilities of the future, At the risk of sounding much too serious than it actually was, we were actually laughing most of the time, and there was sunlight was when we turned ourselves in for the day, dreaming of the different paths that we had taken and happy when our individual paths met and crossed for some time. Saturday was a road trip and promised of adventures, and collected stories.

And woke up to Sunday, and the remains of those stories and promises. And Sunday night had a different theme, it was about the present and it run haphazard and tragic, and wove around love and the need for companionship. And yes, about the seeming and apparent loss of it. And the kinds of hope that we clung on to, hopes that we wrap around ourselves in during those times. And of the kinds of despair we clothe ourselves after we discard those hopes like previous garments. And how after some time we wear some bits of pieces of those fabrics, interwoven and side by side, those hopes and despairs. And though only one of us wore black despair like it was second skin, we knew how form-fitting and snug that felt. And his tears never came that night, but they will come, and keep on coming for some time, eight years is, well, a long time. And he'd be black for as long as he'd feel like it, but I guess the primary colors will creep in after some time. And we slept, feeling the frailty of our bodies against the intoxication of alcohol and the indifference of love sometimes and what our bodies tend to do in excess of those things. And woke up Monday, looking at the remains of that Sunday, the ugly aftermath of unwashed dishes and nuked emotions. And as he declined an adlib for beer and the eventual emotional bypass surgery, the contrast of white and black in his shoes perhaps mirrored his current state of mind, in the context of hope and despair.

This is the reason why beer the next day, at past three in the afternoon tasted funny and sublime, bitter most of all. I guess the news of a seeming loss of an eight year love could do that. Our present cast of characters drinking had changed, and we still couldn't help but think and imagine our personals ifs and perhaps, and ended chalking it up to the uncertainty of everything and absence of any assurance. The concept of destiny tarnished a bit under the afternoon sun. The day wore on and everyone knew we were drinking more than we should but the food was great and it lifted spirits up, not that it really needed some lifting. But the taste of beer stayed the same, still funny and sublime and perhaps more bitter. Thinking about it, I wonder if Monday night was about the past, as we settled more comfortably with the stories of the years gone; old great loves notwithstanding and the accompanying emotions that we each silently remembered and then came out as stories and laughter. Then we slept, because a bit of our age was showing around the edges when beer consumption was concerned. The plastic modular table was a scarred ghost town of beer, dinner leftovers, cigarette burns, watery soup, liver gravy and those discarded emotions that were picked up each and every time we noticed that they were lying around.

I slept a dreamless sleep. I wondered about my drinking companions if they too had the same slumber. or perhaps they had nights of disquiet and rage that the resulting dreams were unrecognizable from their present reality. or if they had lovely dreams, of old loves perhaps. I wonder...

I guess I had to write about this and even if I left most of what transpired hidden, I know that I should leave what I have written unedited lest I regret pushing the delete button. A hard rain falling Monday night would have been the perfect thing to end it but I guess we had to make do with the angry purr of our old electric fans as we fell asleep. Drunken and a little wiser, only if we could remember the stories and connect the right emotions as they happened.
I miss Rain and my Love, that is certain and despite all the uncertainties.

-o0o-

for Che, Don, Joy, King, Noy, Pat, and Zar. In no particular order and not according to the amount of beer and Mountain Dew partaken. Yes, I took the time to alphabetize.