Concoctions

Concoctions (sic!)

Clouds. They are too many. 

Then days go by and...
Rays. They are too bright.
Then seasons swing by and...
Dusts. They are too overwhelming.
Then times walk by and...
Muds. They are too murky...

And in the midst of it all 

My mind tries to follow my eyes through them both - even through the third and the fourth - and I try to remember:

I try to remember that we aren't different. 

That we aren't different from the cloudiness, and the brightness, and the punkey-ness and the murkiness. 

I also try to remember that we were, inasmuch as we are all different, created the same.
I try to remember that I am, between the two of us, the most mad one 

You are less mad than I am, or so I mostly pretend; but there are moments I feel you're more insane. 
And I try to remember that you try to remember to be patient with me

That you can recall all the times that I've either been cloudy, shiny, dusty or murky. 

Yet you just sat there with mixed feelings of wanting to understand who I really am...

I am drunk all the time.

That's why my memory keeps lapsing
I am - most or all the time - that's why I keep on failing.
It should be the drink. The concoction. 

I drink too much of myself mixed with so many other things (all the time) and that's why I keep on trying to remember. 

Yet I keep on failing. 

There are times I'm tempted to remind you - those moments when I'm a little sober - that you are as stunk and drunk as I am.
But I bet you won't listen because you too are drunk with your own kind of drink.
We drink from different places and at different levels, but it's drinking all the same. 

I bet you're always accusing me of being drunk with this or that concoction. 

That's fine. 

But you ain't different. No, you are not. 

You too have a specialty in making and drinking cocktails that are out of this world. 

We mix-up our concoctions using different recipes but they are concoctions all the same.

"So let's get drunk", we secretly whisper to each other's egos. 
Let's drink until the blue sky pales into melancholy; and until the grass frizzles into the depths of air.
Let's make merry until the earth blurs before us; and the rains fall no more...

Until the clouds, the sun, the dust and the mud is no more... 

Or until they multiply right before our very eyes!! 

Then what will we tell our children and our children's children?
We'll tell them we tried.
We'll tell them we tried to remember that we were all born drunk.
But we'll hide telling them that we struggled so much to help ourselves but we couldn't.
We'll pretend that our drinking wasn't something we dreaded.
We'll pretend that we enjoyed it. Every moment. Every detail. Every taste of our concoctions.

At one time we are lions, and cats at some other time.

That's what our concoctions do to us... 

At one time we are strong, but weaklings when a given dawn awakes. 

That's what our concoctions tell us. 

But God sees us: shriveled, in need of warmth and in need of a saving from the murkiness of the mud. 

Will we run to Him that He may give us something else to drink?

Something that will make us drunk yeah, but differently? 

Or will we keep on trying, pretending and failing, until we lie to our children's children? 

NB: Some words in life can only make sense when they are made wordless. (sic!) 

Bonface Morris.