For days--almost a week--he's been clean
of the venom of cannabis smoke in his lungs
or whiskey sliding down his throat, burning his stomach
followed by the delirious high that quickly swells over him.
Right now, clean feels good. Like clean, cool air flowing into his nose
and crystal clear water, cold, from a spring,
drinking it down and feeling no high, just satisfaction from thirst.
He writes endearing messages to his friend. He ponders what could be: a new song, using words from an old Psalm.
He becomes a philosopher, musing on the reason for the common theme of devotion and love in so many
songs, written by so many different people.
It's all there, in everyone. He sees it like the green of spring that shows on every leaf, every blade of grass.
There it is! They all praise, no matter what they confess.
He sees the trail, the fingerprint of the Creator and their common aspiration to praise--God?
Or do they just praise the object of their desires?
He's run out of ambition for now. The fresh air is getting stale. The endorphin has faded. He's tired, discouraged.
His shoulder throbs from a small ball of fire inside. He has nothing but his mind. And his mind quits easily.
Time for a trip to the store for more whiskey.