Because I still breathe

There’s good reason why in the last years my only glass of whiskey in the year slips down my throat for Christmas. The many inane conversations on politics and social morality only get so far over the rest of the year.
Now they drain the last out of me.

After dinner, I wonder why my body is not somewhere in a rocking chair by a fire, a large pot of herbal tea by my side and the rest of the family singing.
With a big sigh I lift myself off the sofa and escape for a long, burning shower.
Surface pain gone, my hair wrapped in a towel, I go downstairs again, only my brother sleeping on the sofa, with the music blasting out the loudspeakers next door. Quietly (not that it mattered) I go on the hunt for a whiskey glass, only traditional cherry glasses hmmm forget principles, that will do. A second later I open the single malt he got me and pour it in.
With my right hand gently swaying the glass and my left propping up my head, I sip on the warm, brown liquid, watching the outlines of my brother sleeping.

Just a moment, just that moment I need to shift my perspective again…that’s how it’s always been…my soul’s mission amongst those who prefer their own little world over the truth, those who lost all contact to the ancient ways.
Why would I need someone to understand or care about the lunar cycle or why the light stands still for this time of year…

I know. A sigh escapes my lips without a sound: yes, if anyone can survive this, it’s me, if anyone can show them, it’s me.
I hold on to the glass, put the bottle back on the table and walk upstairs. Back in the guest room, my hand grabs the brass handle of the window, pushes it down and puts the whiskey on the window sill outside.
Black all around, the sound of the pine not far away reminds me that the mission has never changed in thirty years, it never will, yet the moon cannot be the only one on this path.

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