Listened to this track along with the rest of Hammock's
"Raising Your Voice... Trying to Stop an Echo" album while
writing this blog entry. They go so well together. Try it ;)
Really supposed to be preparing the content for tonight's episode of "Rant & Rave", but for some reason, I can't maintain my focus. My mind's a messy salad of frustrations, burnt out notes, worn-out thought strings and unanswered questions. One of which, I'm hoping to get an answer to by the end of the week. I find this question stems from that all too-familiar phenomenon of drunken intimacy. I think anyone who's ever had a little too much to drink has experienced this. Whether you choose to frame it and mount it on a blank wall in your brain, or to dismissively leave it time-bound on a dusty shelf in your past, is all up to you. But it did happen.
You're probably wondering right now if the "drunken intimacy" I'm referring to is sex. Well... yes and no. It would be on one extreme end of the spectrum, yes, but it doesn't leave much room for interpretation the morning after. Its formula is basic. Too much alcohol + relatively attractive and equally inebriated individual + primal instinct + opportunity (venue x time) = drunken intimacy via sex (or sloppy making out in a dark corner if you were playing for the junior league of intimacy that night). A quick fix was all there was to it. Basic. Superficial. Easy to walk away from, and won't ever merit the usual melancholic "pause in midstep and look back" moment we all know too well from movies and overly dramatic teenage sitcoms. As easily as this amorous mistake is made, it is just as easily forgotten.
I'll tell you what lingers well after the sun rises on your hangover. Well after you've washed the dry, sour after-taste of last night's liquor from your mouth, and the smell of cheap cigarette smoke from your hair. As you down your third tall glass of water in an hour, you scavenge for snippets of memories from last night. Like bits of torn paper, you pick them up from the floor of your mind and do your best to make the frayed edges fit. It was you, a glass too many of that whiskey, a warm, equally lost soul, and a blur of other people in the room.
As the pieces come together, you remember laughing and stumbling arm in arm. You remember bumping knees under the table, and blissfully not worrying so much about what was coming out of your mouth. With the weight of an arm around your shoulder, or the feel of someone else's fingers interlaced with yours, you forget about all of the times you felt alone. Not a single article of clothing left your skin, but you know you bared a part of yourself you usually keep chained in secret. There was no rowdy inappropriateness, but you know you lost control of that cold facade your sobriety normally fuels.
For a good half of a weekend's inebriated population, there's satisfaction in just that - having someone, and the absence of the fear of acting on it. No rough kisses. No regretful touches. No harsh words. No promises to fear breaking. Just solace in knowing carefree nights like these exist, and we all have an infinite number of chances to revel in them, all while holding someone's hand. No need to berate yourself for whatever stolen embraces and half-kisses you managed to come home with. It was all badly miscalculated, yes, but you're human. You spend most of your days telling yourself you're fine on your own, but when the sun goes down and the liquor kicks in, you'll be surprised to find the comfort you never knew you needed in the smallest of gestures. Amidst laughter, stupid jokes, a bruise you'll wonder about in the morning, and bar tab receipts, and smeared makeup, you'll swear you've never felt younger and more alive.
You only have until sunrise. Don't let go just yet.