Glass of whiskey
A few days ago, I started putting the desk lamp back on. I like the cozy and warm atmosphere, different from fluorescent lights. That is how rooms are. The same space should be divided by lighting, separating areas for living and for thinking. Unfortunately, I had been living a life that did not reflect that lately.
Sitting at my desk in my orange-hued room with my fountain pen and notebook, I naturally find myself wanting to listen to a song like good air. Listen the song makes me crave sweet whiskey once again. This is a sequential air circulation ventilation system for a good space.
Just as curtains create a space separated from the outside, this orange lighting allows for a thought that feels detached from somewhere else. Whether it’s a matter of space or time, wouldn’t that be fine. It feels as if the lingering whiskey I drink before heading to bed to finish my journal is making me dream of a spinning wheel. Knowing that this entire series of processes sustains human life, I turn on the lights and separate night from day even today.
There are times in life when you want to drink a strong liquor that makes your head ache as if it’s going to split. There are times in life when, lying in a pitch-dark room covered with a blanket and feeling the sky spin, you may disappear before you even realize you've fallen asleep, wanting to be gone. I live with that shelf filled with strong liquor in my head. Whenever I feel like dying or living, I imagine taking a drink from that shelf.
When I feel this hangover, I fall into the illusion that I could keep my mouth shut forever. When I feel the sky turning, I think that I might be able to lie down forever. There is still glass of whiskey left. If I have to drink this to be able to fall asleep, I hesitate.