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.