Cogitatio

The black oak is faded by the continuous skating of drinks: mugs, snifters, goblets and pint glasses. They remain stationary in formation, anticipating the next pair of thirsty lips to arrive. With every drop that pours in the glass, reality is put to rest, existing predicaments and emotions are directed elsewhere. A fatigued being sits across from me, with a comparable physique to mine. He comes at the same time as I. I see him day-to-day, like a shadow, from sun to moon. I never see him depart; but he is always in my view. In his hand, a glass dripping in its sweat. As he clasps it securely, like a wrench, he devours his poison and without a spoken word; he is detached from this world. When I catch a glimpse into his disoriented eyes, I see contempt. But, a smirk rests delicately on his weary face, as if he knows who I am, and the reason why I pick up this glass each day. He knew I couldn’t bear to look at my own reflection.