It's one of those times. A strange buzzing in my brain. It tells me things are not what they seem. Adjust your eyes, look, find what it is. Whatever it is.
But how? I try, I look, but I rarely see. It's there, it has to be. In some sort of trancedential state of being. It is there. But what?
With the right sort of eyes you can see it. My eyes aren't right. I don't see.
The whiskey is swirling in the glass. It's beautiful amberish color, with a hint of smoke is lulling. I can smell it. The barley, the mash, all of it. I can see it. It swirls in the low rise glass. As the main body splashes down, the remnants run slowly down the side before collecting again.
Push it aside. No need to drink it. Not yet. Save it. Saviour it. Make it wait until that one time when it all seems right.
That one time. You'll know when.
My eyes are adjusting. Mountains, trees, ocean. I can see it. Smell it. Breathe it in, exhale, breathe. Why... My vision, my mind's eye is flooded with these images. I can see the mountains, hear the trees creaking as their moss-covered limbs move from side to side. The ocean spraying me, a glistening of salt water on the face. It roars, I roar. I echo it. It's not a roar of pain or anguish, rather one of frustration. My head hurts.
The whiskey still sits.
Day to day is mundane. I do it, move along, plodding. The crest, it must be near. My eyes turn to the northwest. Is that the answer? Or is it madness, a pit waiting to pull me down into quiet oblivion.
And still the whiskey sits