Tasting a well-aged wine has always seemed nonsensical to me. The swirling and bulking of cheeks, the smacking lips and squinted eyes, as if the light passing through the glass could tell you the secrets of its vine. I never quite got the hang of the aroma your’re supposed to taste, the ripeness of its grape and its hints of … strawberry, perhaps?
Abusing wine on the other hand is a concept all too familiar to me. It lingers
in the air of my parents bedroom when I am 7 years old and I can’t sleep. It’s
in my fathers breath at 1pm the morning after and I can see that single glass
of red wine under my mothers eyes.
Funny enough, just as my parents had a tendency to hide their feeling in these
treacherous waters, I too seek shelter & comfort in the familiar sting of
sweet sweet brews and keep it hidden just as much. My eyes have dried out from
staring at the wall for hours, yet my body still tingles, seducing me towards
another drop, another punch to knock the voices out of my head, another finger
pulled out of my wounds, another feather to add to my Icarus wings.
They call it substance abuse, but is it not physical abuse you are acting up on?
Taking advantage of your conscious mind, intending to ruin it with your own
bare hands that otherwise carry you so strongly through the days? A conscious
mind poisoning itself upon the notion of life quieting down, once intoxicated.
Tell me my friend, how is it that us humans can build and destroy these
fantastic, drastic structures, yet can’t even seem to find an off-switch for
their own brain, without paying for it with their bodies?
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