Drunk Talk

G. and I dragged our sloppy feet home last night, around the wee hour of 3am. A fog had blanketed the city streets, which were otherwise vacant. The homeless and wayward had hidden themselves in the nooks of buildings, the latenight rabbles had already retired for the evening.

I said, what a service this fog does for us, hiding everything, putting minds and bodies to rest. G. wouldn't have anything of this, my drunk philosophizing. And yet, I pressed on- the fog reminds us that we are connected; it is steam, a stew of water particles where we are floating chunks of meat, the trees but vegetables, the sidewalks spices.

And it morphed into poetry. This art, this life, our language is entirely utilized by metaphors. This is like that. Here is there. So, I told G. while I used my umbrella as a walking stick on the rain-laden pavement, poetry is pure existentialism. I am the grass, I am the night, I am a sewer grate, the spring flowers, cement, the metal gate. He rolled his eyes. Despite our efforts at even being direct, and despite the times when we say we are alone, or the poetry that claims to be but an island in an archipelago, we are the same. That is the magic of metaphor. It's even a mathematical equation where everything ends up as 0; a round, all-consuming numeral. Take it or leave it, it will have you.