Absinthe Hour used to have a ubiquitous definition. It was a place where artists, poets, and writers gathered to enjoy the company of friends, a time that had no time frame, and a drink that fortified a culture.
This is Absinthe Hour. I do not claim to be an artist. I do not feel comfortable enough to call myself and poet or a writer, but I am hesitant to even think that I am not one. There is much to feeling and sensation, but at their roots, there are the very core essentials that are cemented into the ground. I know who I'd like to be, and I know what I'd like to aspire to be. I know that I would very much like to tell you, fine readers, I have unraveled the mysteries of my own future and the gold bridge I see before me will lead me to my prosperous destination. But I would like modesty to be the legs that lead me across it.
The future is unwritten, as are the writings that will follow this post. I simply know what I desire. I know that desires are simple, and I know the means to reach those aspirations can be treacherous, aggravating, and frustrating. The process itself is a blend of hot riot and steamy satisfaction. But, I most certainly know that there is no better reward than the entirely new emotion created for you when you succeed, and when you create.
I want to sit at an old table at a café. I want the euphoria of a cold drink in a glass sweating the endless beads of a never ending cocktail. I want to laugh with the jokers and weep with the weak. I want to throw myself at the wind and see how far it takes me. I want to pass out in an alley with a pal. I want to wake up, and do it again.
I want the essence of Absinthe Hour today. And I'll have a drink again tomorrow.
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