They were out last night–all manner of spirits that dwell among us–except, these spirits wore flesh and bones or a sexy glass frame. The clock struck well past midnight and more than a dozen were possessed by these glass protected spirits–the kind that come on a black or red label or bearing the name Mr. Jack Daniels, or some other gentleman or bird. I am not a drinker but it is interesting to share in the festivities with those who will drink until under the table is not down far enough. Or until their spirit and the spirits become one.
My free spirit allows me to intermingle with my wet fellows as though I too were filled with spirits, minus the unsavory eventualities. The only other thing that separates us is that after our moments of laughter and shameless conversation, I will remember it all in the morning. As a writer, these are the moments I live for. They are the experiences that translate into great stories that can be told many times over by the fireside behind muffled chuckles. They are the oral meanderings that create a history rarely seen in public, meanderings that share the behind closed doors personalities that would never see the light of day. Spectator’s sports are far and few between; shy of popcorn, I am always thoroughly entertained by the rambunctious events that develop–the sport of human nature. Last night was no different, and no less a spectacle worthy of a note.
There was always an air of mystery surrounding the witching hour. But it is clear now that when the sun goes down, everything comes alive. It doesn’t matter if it is the spirits of the unknown, the sharing of firewater, or our inner persona illuminated, the spirits will come out. And so they did.
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