I found a note scribbled from a few days ago. I believe this was written in a state of extreme inebriation, both from the contents and the glaring presence of errors in how I wrote it. It goes: I have reason to believe, at some point, my life becomes a drunken story told after a beer too many; this is not unfounded, and I do not mind this one bit.
Of course, this is a version of the note tidied up. I would not want to share the unkempt words, and even if I have no reason not to do that, I feel all notes are eventually turned into writing, so it is unfair to share them as they were written unless the original writer is dead and not present to write the words as they were thought to be.
I believe I wrote it at a barbecue party; I believe amidst the beers and the conversation, there was also a lot of dancing. We danced around a fire and jumped over it when things got crazier. At some point, everything becomes a haze, like the smoke from the fire that engulfed the edge of the hill we were on. And what of the drinking? While I don’t remember much, I remember it went on as it should have. Of course, we can all stop drinking and jumping around fires and having the grandest time in the world, but where is the fun in that and if there is, why have it when it’s the same either way? There is destruction in so many of us. It pays to let it out in bursts of impromptu dancing around fires, roasting food, and laughing like there’s no tomorrow, lest we set fire to our lives instead. I remember most of what I remember; the parts in between get hazy.
But I remember closing my eyes and taking in the moment around me. I remember imagining how it may look as a memory. I remember very clearly that I did this, that I tried to think of it like days long gone, that I was older, and that I had this story to tell everyone now. I pictured myself telling this with the nostalgia burning in my eyes, quite like the fire we danced around. I imagined it all, and now that I think of it, that was when I wrote it down:
I have reason to believe, at some point, my life becomes a drunken story told after a beer too many; this is not unfounded, and I do not mind this one bit.