Illusions

I’m the champ of drunk-writing. I may not be drunk, but I sure can write as if I am. Of course, having the trusty old glass of Mr. Jack by my side is as reassuring as it is inspiring. Some slow music helps as well, to go with the dimmed lamp and the comfortable leather seat. It’s all about atmosphere you see. Lying to your senses, deceiving your perception, and making it believe what you want it to. A whirlwind of subtle sensory overloads designed and directed towards creating the illusion that you’re comfortable. The soft shadows hide the unpleasant, the dim light lights what stands out. And if we find fault more often than virtue, the shadows will hide it, and if we find virtue more often than fault, the shadows will hide some of it. The end-result will be the accentuation of the protruding highlights of the pleasant, the smooth curves of the aesthetically attractive and the soothing reflection of the dimmed light.

The next part is conversation. I wish it was as it is supposed to be. The atmosphere helps, as does the liquor, but the words don’t flow quite as easily. It should depend on the individual, but since each has only one experience in this matter, that is, their own, it’s difficult to generalize. If you think of what to say, you’ll run out of things to say. If you don’t think of what to say, you’ll either be swept in the listening, or start thinking of things to say when everyone stops talking. Usually it’s a tango, with pairs talking to each other, once in a while stopping to bow to the other pairs, sometimes exchanging partners. However most often than not, it’s a one-sided conversation. I say what little I judged to be of interest to you, and you, wait for me to finish before saying what you found of interest, while trying to relate it to my words with a clever segue. Ideally, as the conversation goes, the lines of conversation become more and more entangled, until we are both talking about the same thing. This is an art, and like all art, it often gets better with added spirits and narcotics. At least that’s what it seems from the inside.

So the glass is half empty, and I managed to keep it above that limit for about 2 or 3 hours. As it is now, the music has turned slower, and the inspiration dwindled. I have found some mildly non-boring conversation, and the alcohol is finally taking its toll on my eyelids. I have more and more trouble concentrating on the words and the meaning. The goal has shifted towards filling some last words on the blank piece of paper before I go to sleep instead of getting into the spirit that drove me so far and come up with something worthwhile to read. It’s a bit sad really. This one could have really been something. A guide maybe. A review on society culture. Maybe even a crazy useless text on a website. But no, it must end with the usual self-conscious farce. I have done this one too many times and believe me when I say I am not proud of this. I’ll regret it later, yes I will. I know I will.