Full Lungs

1

   In life I can't help but notice the little things. The way my shadows split in two, the way leaves crumble in my hands. The way ashes float, the way water ripples.

   I stare at my glass, the climbing pattern resembling diamonds that would halt into a flat border for the rim. The atmosphere's light stretches and morphs into lines that highlight the rugged surface. The fact I could see the glowing amber liquid past all that beauty seemed impossible.

   Even harder to paint. Capturing all the shapes and light in a satisfying way. So that the colors could strike; just enough to leave a mark but not enough to burn. Yet the burn can be impactful, resonate in your mind. Make you re-think.

   The burn, I want it. I want my art to not just look good but make a person think. What does this mean? Does it symbolize something?

   Just thoughts, all of it. Obsessive, translucent, and unwavering. I drink from the glass; the harsh whiskey stings as it flows. Making my throat hoarse yet anew.

   I continue through the night. Indulging in things that would make a sober me cringe. Drink after drink, turning into a warm haze in my stomach; then my cheeks, head, chest, fingertips, and so on. Everything, hazy and colorful. Even the ugliest figures would blend into eternal beauties.

   My insides turn to mush, to something someone could take advantage of. Common senses only flicker into my brain. Sounds become palpable. Sight almost tastes like honey and rain. A slight buzz on my taste buds.