The Waters of Life

December of last year brought about a lot of turmoil in my life, and the waves and ripples are still lapping against the shores … but I am not one to dwell on the negative for too long, and I do have to give thanks to the fates when moments of bliss drop into my lap. Along with all the crap I have had to wade through this year, beautiful moments arose that glistened like cat’s eyes in the dark, murky sludge and have kept me on my feet, clambering towards more solid ground. When surrounded with lies as thick as locusts on holiday in biblical fields of revelation, a small yet cosy drinking establishment allowed me to stretch my wings beneath the earth and hold my head in the clouds for a time as I displayed my love of facial forms. That same brick-encased evening, there was even a duo of angels from white lands permitting me to strum my four-stringed harp and growl before the congregation about the lack of sunshine or the impending arrival of a Ford-driving Christ. And even as ice cold eyes stared blankly at me for days on end with their lifelessness, another unknown ethereal form stood trustingly before me one bright day … shining in the morning, smiling into the light of the afternoon and teasing me in the evening … an entire day all within the span of two hours resonating with the sounds of laughter. These days I have traded a hostile environment for a hostel one, and I walk along avenues covered in the spectacular colours of autumn or stroll the cobbled streets and lanes of a painting come to life; I watch numbered forms swiftly glide over ice as crowds of onlookers chant and scream; where I lay my head is now my home, even though I never seem to keep it upon the same pillow for more than 3 or 4 nights in a row; the company I keep are transient figures that I occasionally create lasting bonds with or, more likely than not, let slip away into the impenetrable fog of the morning … and all of this is near perfect … and far superior to the cold shadow of the ghosts that had for so long haunted my waking hours and sleepless nights. But even this new lens through which I glance through needs the addition of a finely aged 5-year old spirit to make it all swim into glorious focus. There is nothing that completes a day more than the time I am allotted every so often to savour that magnificent drink of life, and every sip I take keeps my head spinning in such a way that nothing can drag me down from the high I feel at those moments. I readily admit that it is a powerfully strong addiction, but one that I am more than willing to nurture or even give my life to keep. And I dare say that the majority of you will permit me to keep a firm hold of this one vice.