I had been seated here long enough to know that the bartender was to be fired. A drink was all that was asked of him but he seemed rather rattled by something other than his job. If i were any soberer, I would have felt a great deal for the man, considering that he looked not a hair above 19 and would have thought a million other dramatic reasons as to why his face was to found so gloomily.
But from my current place of seating, he looked nothing but a miserable little creature who failed to make me a drink. What is this life, where a person cannot even look after his own job? How miserable he must be for money and probably for tuition that he had to be on the other side of this table. I try not to think about these things where living is such a misery, but please, don’t take it from me. For I am no one but a miserable woman myself, sitting in a tavern, judging the boy that is not even drinking. I feel that a person drinking could have only two reasons to fall so low. In great happiness where he needs to find some control and in great disappear where nothing can numb the pain. But I wonder if people drink just because they are fond of the beverage. But at the same time, I think there can be a million other things that a person can be fond of, and as I continue to think I feel that maybe being fond of such a thing is meer stupidity. As if nothing could occupy the mind of a normal person other than a drink.
I know that I am quite hypocritical because I myself am pouring down a drink through my throat. But fear not, my drinking is not about sadness or happiness, nor is it because I am normal; it is merely because I am curious to find myself under the influence of something other than myself. Because when you go to think of it, how bored must people become to live with themselves and not even have a break? Well, some might not feel this, because some might enjoy being in their own little circle, but think, where a writer would have been if some sort of craziness wouldn’t have been a concern of his. This might also imply that all writers are crazy but aren’t they? If it weren’t for my craziness would I have been writing about a scene in the tavern, and judging the bartender for a crime so minuscule? But I think writers are the sane observers that can make sense of the craziness of normal life. When I say this I might be implying that all people are crazy, but again, I am the woman who is drinking whisky and have no idea myself as to what I wish to imply. It’s just that, to me, there is no difference between being crazy and being sane. To think of it they seem like the same thing. All sane people are in some manner crazy to think that sanity exists and that they are sane. But it also the same people who are crazy about not losing their sanity. Oh for god’s sake, only if humanity didn’t have a million unwanted emotions and another million doubts, this reasoning would have been simpler.
A tavern or a bar as some of you might wish to call it is the best place to get to know all of humanity. Emotions here, seem to fill in more space than oxygen does. It is at every table that you find a different story, and maybe you think that all stories are stupid because you might think drinking is stupid, but have you ever questioned why you’re grown-up instead of staying small all your life? It is the same as that. There is a very special trait found in people at the bar, they always feel that everybody but them is drunk. A denial that maybe comes from a deeper end in life. They’re all running trying to hide behind the bottle but they seem to forget that the bottle is quite narrow and cannot possibly hide their faces. As I say this I myself wonder as to how I am feeling as if feeling something or allowing yourself to feel is an easy task. Emotions, I think, are such a burden to a human, either you can be happy and content or miserable. But in everyone’s book, misery and content hold equal pages, because if all would have been happy then who was to feel the pain? But I still wonder why people feel it fit to hide behind the very thing that makes them numb. This question though is the same as asking why we betray. Only if the human life was such to define in a few sentences.
There are so many things in this world that we hope can be simplified and distinguished but another truth about life is that it can never be defined or distinguished, there are always going to be differences, and similarities are the things we are all going to strive for. And maybe this strive never ends, maybe this feeling of the unknown is always going to be there, because if one cannot question their own being then how are you to expect someone to matter? And as I sit here, making out the pieces to this never-ending puzzle I realize how afraid we are of never finding a similar person. How afraid we are to lose something that we haven’t even touched and how miserable we are to feel abandoned by love. Love is not like finding your favorite t-shirt, nor is it so easy as keeping your clothes ironed, but when one fails at it, they are to feel that failure for the rest of their life. How minuscule this one word is that people tend to treat with ignorance as if deciding to kill the silkworm or the silk is an easy task. These decisions, kill a person from within more than they would eventually repair. In truth, you never know which path is less traveled by and if choosing that path would leave you lonely or with a person extraordinary. And as easy it is to love, the fear of love is what drives us to the ends. It is this fear that destroys more than it can ever build. To feel like being pushed from a building is more horrifying than jumping off of it voluntarily.
And as every show goes on, the story of our lives goes on too. Nothing is to be lost and nothing is to be found and if anything is to be found, one must realize that it is all momentarily present. To live is not to be in a movie that goes on forever but to be in the moment that occupies us.
The influence which holds the people in this place is not of the booze but rather is the fear, the love, the disappointment, the happiness that occupies us momentarily.
As for me, I am crazy enough to think that the influence that holds me is merely life.