My, How We Are Thirsty

Days of Lemons and Daffodils

Any night I find lemonade in the fridge, I can't figure out how not to revert into a crackhead. After one sip, all I can think of is another. Its too good to stop. Sleep is a passive aggressor and never convincing enough to deter me from the self-appointed mission, in such cases:

drink all the lemonade in the fridge.

Sure, tomorrow will proceed this night and my love for lemonade will not wane; and sure I could do, tomorrow, with some of the euphoria that sizzles in my brain when I drink the naturally squeezed sour-made-sweet drink; but why concern myself with tomorrow when the night and the lemonade are both here, presently.

Drink all the lemonade in the fridge.

It becomes a command, one which I take seriously. It becomes a law and I, its most faithful of officers. A nebulously, grayish-yellow liquid, as if a cloud of sun became a beverage that pours onto a cup like a god into a miracle; a holy communion becomes the quenching of a thirst. Only its not the thirst of a dry tongue or throat, not the deprivation or dehydration that can drain a body, like a fish out of water, and kill it. This thirst is not much like that, if at all. This is the thirst of addiction, of chemicals in the brain recognizing a familiar chemistry and associating with it, the most welcomed of lemonade memories. The sour-made-sweet yesterdays. Its sweetness and all its delights, excessively craved, sought, and possessed only for a few seconds before it fades as you sigh out a momentary satisfaction. But before you know it, the satisfaction is gone, for you can't have your lemonade and drink it too.

Still this doesn't stop me from trying, sometimes all night. Each time hoping some physical anomaly will take pity on me and allow me both, my possession and my drink.

That Sound in the Background

My Monthly Aresian Horoscope

March 21 - April 19

I could be a serial killer. It isn't the violence or the regard and respect for life that stops me. I stop me only from that last reserve of fear, a reservoir in fact, abundantly holding the thirst at bay, there is no thirst to go further so long as that fear holds me there.

I know perfectly well what would happen past that point. The thrill of acting out that desire, that freedom after drilling out of that fettering inhibition. How fulfilling to finish that which the mind initiates. How proud, how greatly satisfied, magnificently palliated even, as if it were from an ailment I were temporarily dismissed of; as it were it not rather from an ailment I was dismissed towards.

I could be a serial killer.

That first time would not be enough. Nothing is of a lasting duration, everything slips away or the memory becomes insufficient, I'm left a drunk sucking liquor off ice cubes. My thirst will not silence any less when that reservoir shrinks to a puddle. And that first time is all it takes to dry the reserve to half its inhibition. In its place, in the negative space, the half-empty, what plays in its stead is a dare, a thrilling, exciting dare that is always new, that displays for the first time for all to see what's there at the bottom of that man made lake. Fear becomes mud. One doesn't regularly drown in mud only gets himself dirtied. And in the mud there are two types of people, those who get partially dirtied and must become clean right there and then, and then there are those who don't see the difference between being a bit dirty and going further.

I have an obsessive personality, that is, I obsess and form habits easily. Given the amount of happiness or temporary pleasure I derive from certain activities I could become addicted no sooner than once after losing my virginity to that activity. It all takes nothing more than that first step past the last reserve of fear.

I could be a serial killer.

I'd repeat again and again, there's no reason as to why I should stop besides boredom. Even if I wanted to stop, if the personal satisfaction outweighed the personal discomfort afterwards, I wouldn't. The personal discomfort would probably be momentarily silenced by the next exorcising of the haunting act itself. This would become the final surviving bliss I'd be capable of, perhaps even suitable for.

Yet, all this said and nothing done as the reservoir is ever so faithfully obliging to that thirst. I am only a coward and can only empty the literary correspondent to that reserve through words. This isn't enough, its all a matter of how much you are aware of this fact, it isn't enough.