There are people who find drinking delightful. I’ve seen them mainly in films although the average Bulgarian who lives in a village and drinks every day without getting drunk can easily fit into this category of people. The only condition is for them to really love the liquid in their glass.
In films those are usually men who drink plain whiskey on yacht decks with the sun going down reflected in their perfectly white shirts. Or women who have a glass or two of white wine every evening inside their quietened cosy houses with windows open to let in the song of the crickets. It’s always summer. The need for alcohol shouldn’t be predetermined by the cold weather.* They take a slow sip, enjoying the way the taste of the drink changes with each step of its journey – through the lips, through the tongue, through the throat, down the body to the stomach and then back up to the brain – both fast and smoothly.
That’s how I imagine perfect love.
The first requited love can hardly be perfect just how a young person pressed his lips for the first time on the wet mouth of a bottle can hardly be moderate. It hits you suddenly, it makes you dizzy, it knocks you down, it fills your mind with fantastic visions, it makes you fly, it widens your pupils to such an extent that your vision already encompasses the invisible radio signals and rays, too and you literally feel how your heart beats in unison with the whole universe. You lie down on the bed and hug the person next to you and with the night descending, everything else that’s also part of the world loses not only its outlines but also its meaning.
On the morning you wake up.
And your head hurts.
Is it possible for that same thing that made you so happy and let you fly to suddenly fill you up with so much pain?
Yes, it is, when that thing is alcohol or love.
There is no pain when you are an abstainer. Your body is cold and sterile clean. Every morning you wake up and the dream disappears quickly like the ripples of lake water pierced by a little pebble. You get up and your mind is already a mirror surface. Everything is calm, steady, quiet, tranquil. So uneventful that one day you just ask yourself the inevitable question: is this life or death?
Perfect love is somewhere between abstinence and alcoholism.
It’s a DIY seesaw on which we play alone. The only way we can swing is to step on the plank and try to balance over the support, making a step in one direction and quickly stepping back. It’s an eternal dance between intoxication and sobriety which no one but us ourselves can teach us. And yet, it’s a dance. And after a while the changing of steps should turn into a habit.
I have never known how to drink.
I didn’t know how to fall in love.
I will always remember the salty taste of tequila
And yet… a few days ago it was two years since I started playing a game.
With myself only.
It includes a seesaw.
And you know what…
I am planning to win it.
Cheers to that!
*P.S. The need for love shouldn’t be predetermined by the cold weather.