BLUE PROSES

ALCO-HELL

Alco-HellHey, I'm not wasteful of my words anymoreEven now, even in my sober thoughts.I still feel the claw of meaning in the bottom of my throat, the meaning of the words that I repeatedly whisper while looking at the small transparent glass until the words unhinged from its meaning. Jesting the unspoken rules of my grave erasing my name written in cursive form from the tombstone that was made out of illegitimate black marbles yelling for peace. I've been talking to the glass with amusement in my face because of the liquid colors that layered from it. The transparency of the glass enabled the colors to show. I've been dying to know what the hell am I doing with my life? Or why am I drinking?When I was a kid, I always thought that beers are sweet because I saw a lot of people smiling while drinking it, I also have been hearing their jokes with no sense or logic in it but I never thought that would make a bunch of hard laughter around the drinking table. When I was a kid, I thought that red and white wines were specifically made for feminine because it was proven that it has been good for the heart. I tried to drink both beer and wine during our New year holiday and I figured out that beers aren't sweet and the red wine that looks like strawberry syrup would taste terrible for the first time it parked in my mouth, parading in my tongue. The broken lad from the film "when we first met" told the girl who's driving his car that Jack Daniels was the nectar of the gods, that made me wonder so I took a shot of JD that I bought from the store, for I know that nectars are so sweet that even butterflies long for it and search for it in every flower that it sees. When I uncapped the bottle, the aroma wanders out around the room and it flashes all my hopes that has become a dead star. I threw the cap to my window and never expect that it'll come back here like a boomerang. I don't chase things that I have thrown away, once I threw them it means that I no longer need them nor benefit from them, that's why I wonder why I saw my pen and paper under the guitar that I don't know how to play, well I tried, but every time I strum the strings, it doesn't sound like music, it sounds more like laughter that makes fun of me every time I serve my dishes using the dry leaves on my spice rack. "Fuck this beer, I thought you're sweet. You just taste like everybody else in the market" I whispered with a disappointed smirk. Of course, you just run past the thoughts without contemplating the mechanics involved, but the question of how you are able to do this turns out to be better yet would be incredibly complicated, and no one really solved it until the moon showed that some infinities are bigger than other infinities. "I assume that answers my question," I said confidently, then sipped generously from the glass. I thought I'd get a better taste for the second attempt, but the consistency of the alcohol tasted the same, terrible. There is language I would like to use that I'm barely stopping myself from using but all of these ignores that there are higher tendency that I will just shut up, or not. It'll feel the same anyway because I don't have any lending ears between the corners of my bedroom. Well, except from the lightbulbs that has witnessed almost every thunder in my face. I thought beers will make me a well-relaxed man, but all it caused me was memory impairment which was ironically the free prize at the bottom of every vodka bottle. I still wonder how many people will tell me how they no longer recall what happened during their drunk nights, it appears to me that every bottle has some amnesia atoms that makes them not remember when the liquid started to prance in their throats. I've been heaving a long disappointed sigh, I will buy every bottle of beer if it would make me not remember anything, including my childhood or the day the I have started to walk. If not remembering every data of my flash drive in head would make me feel alive again,give me all those beers even if I don't like how they taste. I will give you all my money just to save the final shot or even the final drop of it. I will ask the bartenders to give me the ladies drink so I'd feel like I'm drinking my blood back. A friend of mine thought that root beer's also a literal beer. It's cola. And the weird part of it was it made him a drunken pal after two shots. Well for a fact, after some curious research, I figured that root beer was originally named "root tea."The drink's fabricator had trouble selling it to his coal-miner customers as 'tea,' so he started calling it 'beer.'. I do not logically got the point of calling it tea when it was cola, and replacing the tea with beer even if it was cola. Maybe the creator of the brand was drunk while he was making a brand name. They say, when you're drunk, it'd feel like heaven. Like you're floating in the air. Like a rollercoaster ride. Like a newborn child. Every time I unthirst myself from all those thoughts, even if I drink every alcohol available in the market, it won't make me feel drunk, not even sober. I started to hate my high alcohol tolerance. It does appear to me that my body was immuned with these drinks, prohibiting every amnesia atom to barge in my system. Alcohol doesn't make me feel the heaven they've been telling me every birthday party. It does not lessen the heavy baggage that I carry every time I flight with my thoughts. It does not make the jokes funny for the second time. All it does was make my pockets empty. An Instagram post with a caption "chilling with my bottles" or "holding this figure instead of you". All those are bullshit. Every drop of it reminds me that I wasn't complete. I am a code nobody can't decipher. i am a magic that no one will cast. Instead of removing all my thoughts, all it does was remind me that I can't face my fears. Oh, very well. I can't keep up this clever charade any longer. We have different tolerance and our bodies welcome this liquid differently, you might tell me that you love how it taste and contradict my words. But may I remind you that we don't have the same definition of heaven. And this drink was embodiment of hell. It might look fancy or cozy, I do not generalize their taste, I'm not a major fan of this liquid but I can tell that some of them are remarkable. I saw people barging their system with this kind of flavors, but surely you must have thought about what happens to them, I mean as characters, I mean independent of their metaphorical meanings or whatever. They're fictions, nothing happens to them. These bottles are tools they use for some purpose, unfortunately, most of them are sensual bitches. I have to tell you something, okay?It's not a beer talking okay? It's me talking. I just need beer to get the words from my brain down to my mouth. Drunk or not drunk, if you feel it's not safe to register them to your body, then don't. Peer pressure might be pushing, but telling yes if you know you wanna say no, isn't that your hypocritic oath? Regardless that I hated about thinking of other people, but it's impossible not to imagine a future for them. You are the most qualified person to imagine that future. So tell me, will you drink these bottles with me? I know it's kinda weird to ask you this because I hated it, but maybe, the magic of beers will just appear to me when I drink them with the best company.Maybe it's not about the taste of the beer, or of the scotch or of vodka, maybe it's about spending time with people that you don't even mind how bitter it tastes or how many hours you guys have been drinking. Maybe it's about the stories you wanna share or their stories they tell you. Maybe the key of feeling heaven the was drinking alco-hell. Let's try it, so we can tell.