The aftermath that comes next to a hangover. You.
See, the alcoholic forgot you while he was drunk, when his brain couldn’t process what was happening. When he was weak, so vulnerable. Your thought didn’t cross his mind. But you came back when it was all gone. Or maybe, you are interspersed so deep in his sub-conscious, that a few shots of vodka don’t get to reach you in there. You are reality. The stinging, neck snapping reality in his dreams. Surreal yet inexplicable. Like the morning after a drunk night, you are painful, yet the most real.
You are the writer’s muse. The undying inspiration. All she can do, is write about you. And no matter how much she describes, the number of details she spills out – you’ll always be beyond reach. You’ll always be an inexplicable enigma. You’ll be there deep within her, but the only way she can reach you is tear out the multiple layers of protective walls she’s built around her meek, introvert self. Too big a price, if you ask me. And hence, you remain out of bounds.
No, no. I think, you are that alcoholic’s forbidden sixth shot. He wants you so desperately, but can never have you. Partly because of those people around him, partly because of his own unconscious state. He watches you sitting calmly in that shining bottle and mocking him for his lack of co-ordination. So he makes up his mind and reaches out to pour you down his paper cup. But, you. You slip out of his reach, like you always have. And somebody else gets you then. As always. Someone more in their senses than him, someone more capable than him, someone more deserving than him. And you go away.
Like the writer’s surreal reality. The alcoholic’s forbidden sixth shot..!