I have always loved that moment between sober and drunk. That state of happy: when you smile through words without slurring them; when you’re so giddy you can whirl without diving to the floor; when you are bold enough to be yourself without being an absolute fool; and especially when the entire world is all love and laughter. I see the most truth come out of one’s lips at that euphoric moment between sober and drunk. Perhaps the Germanic people had it right when they drank wine during councils. No one could really lie effectively when drunk. But the moment passes me by as swiftly as it rolls in. Tricked by Bacchus. One moment blissfully happy and then blissfully gone. One moment freed by ecstasy and then by madness. Because just as I am hoping to catch a little more of the “spirits”, I lose it. Having sampled the uninhibited truth elixir, my noble self will keep chugging the potion, indulge in more from the goblet. There goes happy, along with each gulp, and here comes lethargic. And now I will leer through words and slur them, I will shamefully twirl and fly smack into the floor, and I will become an absolute fool. And now the world is not all love and laughter but a shadow that won’t make sleep and will hammer on my head tomorrow. But despite the odds, just for that minute chance of euphoria, I will forget the treachery of Bacchus last week. And you will see me there, once again, seeking that space between sober and drunk, and yearning for truth in a goblet.
An intelligent man is sometimes forced to be drunk to spend time with his fools. Ernest Hemingway