I stole wine from the white cabinet, but red wine, even though the back of the cabinet is red. Sometimes I paced back and forth, resenting myself in front of Bahá’u’lláh. But that never stopped me from turning to the cabinet and taking only a small sip, plugging the narrow opening of the bottle with the back of my tongue.
Many times are there that I find myself looking down into the garden— if it could be called that. I look on to the trees early morning and realise for them, with their blood-red leaves, that it is more accurate to be mourning time. If someone took to clipping every tree, there would not be spindles growing where the rich and matted grass once grew, being groomed daily in some distant nostalgia of past summers turned to autumn. There was once another tree that grew alongside the others, and now it’s sad reminder is not itself, but its own cubicle at the far side, where, at one time, the stairs led to a mystical place on the horizon, a place where gazes of mine often found themselves directed to day-dream. No longer may I sit beneath the slim trunk, among the leaves it shed that had been crisped in the sunlight and thus had not rotted nor drawn insects to disturb me. But never did I sit there anyways, because always had I been busy doing something like day-dreaming.
Every time that I sip the wine, I think that, if inverted, the bottle might resemble its naked trunk, the skeleton of that particular tree. The glass has a narrow base that is moist with cold precipitation offered from the wine, much as the snow might make in regards to a barren tree in the winter. In view of the peculiar drinking circumstances, it could be pathetic to compare trees and wine bottles to one another— but the reality that they are not all that similar could make me rethink the ways in which I once did find them similar. I have never poured a bottle of wine vertically upside down, nor of course taken a drink, even if my tongue might plug the entire opening. If I were to drop it, the residue of my crimes would be clear. I never could fully take advantage of the wine, just as with the tree. And once the tree had indeed given its all into life (however long that might have been is anyone’s guess) it was chopped down, and even in hindsight I never have taken advantage of trees that thrive still on the yard.
In fact, I have neglected every branch that used to serve as a seat, a means of fantasy times and now quite realistic ones, a place of hallowed solitude and creativity. I bit the night-time air with everything I had. Reckoning the woes that might have befallen me, and quite had in my mind, I glowered at my past self as I laid indoors. Even still, I am not the attacker. I never was. But the trees were my sea, a sea as close as anything to the clouds that I could never be among. Now I’m not hunting or fishing for anything— not my own ideas; I’ve gotten three-fold what I will ever need. Suppose it’s become a place to call upon for simplicity.
I am an absent in many rights; nothing ever came of what I did. Definitely no evil, but not good, either. I wish the small fish in my sea— but small in the sense that one doesn’t notice them building up, as with snow— would be eaten by the jaws of my mind.
My fins (not wings, fins are for swimming to not drown; and I never reached the front edge of the water to climb out and distance myself from it by means of the air) have fallen, so I don’t swim.
I used to be a shark.
I will be made soon into soup.