The sound of the quivering fly on the wall it was not. It was the sound of the bell tolling, reaching out, and grasping the trees and the leaves and the wind with its balmy fingers.

The horse on the street went clip-clop as its owner took another swig of whiskey from his bottomless flask. I heard the gluck-gluck-gluck of his throat as he swallowed the burning liquid. I saw the woman on the street in her pretty dress, dawdling with an attractive man. They held hands and he whispered nothings to her ear. She giggled. I could hear the high-pitched laugh as it pierced the night, cutting through the heavy cloak of the bell tolling (ding…ding…ding…). I watched, slightly fascinated as the man pulled her to him and started to slowly (and no doubt agonizingly) touch his lips to hers. I see the excitement of the girl. No, I could hear it. It went thud-thud-thud in my ears like a deranged man trying to knock down the walls of my flat. The beating of her young heart was so close to my ear, it felt like it couldn’t get any louder (or any closer). I went inside the house and put on Led Zeppelin.

I lit a long white candle as I always did on lonely, jumpy nights like these. I looked at the flame’s beauty, melting the wax and dripping on to my waiting hand. For a moment it stung, and my heightened senses felt every needle prick. And here I am. As I jam the candle into a bronze candleholder, I revel at the stark contrast of white on muddy gold. I take my drink – just rum – and a pack of cigarettes. I walk over to the other side of the room, walking over blackened foil, used up syringes, empty medicine bottles, bottles of rum (some empty, some fresh), Ziploc bags torn open, empty cigarette boxes and poems songs stories scattered on the floor. I grab my Zippo and head back to my candle.

I set the candle down on the floor and sit in front of it, cross-legged. To any other person, the flame on the candle would be puny. To me, it was roaring, scorching me with its madness and engulfing me in its beauty. I am entranced.

I let the flame set sprout fire in my mind. It fueled my mind like gasoline to a wildfire. I start to write.

You see, my friend, it is not the matter of flying that concerns me. It is the matter of seeing and feeling what you cannot feel when you are on the ground, caged by life’s experiences. It is a matter of artistry. It is a matter of self-preservation. It is a matter of life and death.

Tell me, what can one experience in a lifetime? The occasional heartbreak, betrayal, love, loss, and eventually…lesson? Do you believe that the hardships we experience as we go about our usual daily routines are what make up our lives? Is that what we really aim to acquire in our temporary stay in this solid, tangible world?

I think not. The real reason, as I have come to conclude, results in the hardships and the experience. What makes up our lives is the thirst for knowledge. What is it like? How does it feel? What makes it real? That, my friend, is life. Knowledge. This is not a talk of books or of science or of mathematics. It is a talk of thirst and want. It is a talk of lack of fear (which very much hinders the thirst of knowledge) and gain of understanding. Knowledge is a talk of living life for real.

I’m sure a chap could easily go about his life usually; trying his best to keep up at school in his learning years, applying for a 9 to 5 office job and eventually starting a family with three kids and one dog named Brownie. But tell me, where there is the beauty of his sacrifice?

Is it the kids who will grow up to work a 9 to 5 job just like their father and never know about the other side of the world?

Is it himself who prides himself on his steady existence but will never see what is above the thunder clouds that throw lightning bolts during stormy nights?

Or is it his wife who cooks perfect rosemary lamb every time but never gets a chance to eat stars or drink fire?

....

I stop writing.

I am my own bane of existence.

I realize this just now.

Clean and sober ended a long time ago.

A whole day of flying and I am still alone.

Author: Cristine Giselle Espino
Author's Bio/Notes:

To console myself, I try to repeat in my head, over and over again, that I cannot even remember writing this. I would guess I wrote this during one of my sadder nights, spent drinking alone and doing whatever I can to fill the void with artistic fog. I see the beauty in it's somewhat childish sadness, though, and the uncanny attention to detail caught my eye. I feel no connection to this work - as if I had never written it and it just so happened to pop up in my computer. The date on the computer says May 28, 2008.

Whoever said stoners can't be productive?