And here we were again…in total darkness, surrounded by bottles of alcohol and a strong smell of cigarettes. Reddish lights around provide a sense of clarity, but the cigarette smoke just made everything disappear. Yet in another minute, you could see blurred faces of always angry and tired people all around as if they wanted to consume your own energy like vampires back in the day.
Surrounded by heavy wooden textures, your mind gets heavier with every second. You have to deal with the irresistible yet disgusting moment when you sit around the bar on a tall stool with broken footrest support, trying not to fall and keep it cool. Trying not to fall when she pushes you to the fuckin canyon, mentally going on and on about her problems, all over, wanting to wrap you around her finger. In that moment of total delusion and denial, I am guessing Hypnotic Poison, a strong perfume smell, occupies your mind, awakening the lost sensuality in the dreary days. Up until a person next to you yells “one more,” smashing his fist on the table, creating this annoying sound of “boom,” the sound of emptiness and a reminder of limitations, you are far from that shitty bar, smoke, and people; you are in a fantasy that triggers the strongest hidden desires, desires that you push away within every single day.
She goes away, pushing the stool closer to the bar leaving it as empty as her heart was during this whole time. The alcohol bottles, though, are standing still and manically attract you when you are on the verge of a breakdown. Each bottle looks different from the others in shape, size, and color, just like people do; ironically, though, bottles do not fight with one another. I am way too drunk, and I can feel my ego and arrogance taking over me; maybe I lost her forever, but who cares when in reality, she lost me? With every sip of a strong Negroni that slowly goes down your throat, leaving the sweetness with a glance of bitterness aftertaste, your mask is coming off…
Standing in lines like soldiers who provide relief and a sense of protection, those bottles communicate a similar feeling. You know the danger is out there, but they are here. The place is full of darkness and amusement, madness and fear. I’m attempting to concentrate on the bottles behind the bar table to see the names, yet I can’t, the image fades into a multitude of others, but the pinkish bottle catches my eye among blues and oranges.
Minutes turn to hours, and the next thing I know, a tall bartender with a chaotic beard and an ugly black t-shirt gives you another drink. He is standing behind a tall, somewhat thin bar table made of reddish wood that, in a way, is an exact replica of himself—as tall as himself, as narrow as his mind. He continues to flirt with you, thinking he has you on the hook, but all you do is stare and smile in the deadly for any man manner, but your eyes are as empty as the bar is. Then you start to wonder if he’ll offer you another complimentary drink or…
Rock music is playing in the background. Around six tables are organized and placed in a small room, the only thing in there that gives a sense of clarity rather than wreaking havoc on your mind. The tables are made of the same redwood as the stools and the bar; the pine texture feels so relaxing. A mind that is already getting diminished by alcohol wants to stop functioning for an hour and forget the people, places, and everything, to start simply enjoying the way the wood feels. The smoke was gone, and the picture became more apparent.
Friday night, yet the bar was almost empty. But, one person sitting at the bar next to me was beginning another shot in tears. Am I a stranger interested in what happened? No, does it interest me as an artist? It does, indeed. Two more people were sitting at the corner-placed table, the darkest corner of the bar, where even drawings on the wall were not visible. Oh, those paintings…On top of being intoxicated with alcohol, the vivid colors and amazing shapes were enough to make you feel high. The sudden need to kneel on the floor and begin gazing up at the ceiling where several quarter-sized drawings were staring back at you arose. There was death, a grin, and an angel. The floor was wooden yet smooth; the coldness of it penetrated through, and goosebumps ran all over me. The squares on the ceiling were pushed against you, and they got closer and closer; the angel showed some direction death offered a hand, and the grin was smiling; it was time to choose the one to lead you.
