Drinking Dream

One ten. I tried to sleep for a few hours. My dreams were piecemeal and formless, nonsense. Like visual gibberish. The last lucid dream I had featured Eduardo and Pastor… and a lot of alcohol. It was a bohemian, bacchanalian vision, bright and warm as the beating of my heart. First I got drunk at home on Fosters Lager, then wandered over to the church. I came upon Eduardo playing piano in the sanctuary, which appeared like a high school band room or college lecture hall. I glowed and harmonized with the music as it waxed major here and minor there. Pastor came and we walked out and across the street by the side of a car while Eduardo stayed in the sanctuary. We played a game of Name that Tune with Eduardo on piano, which we could hear from there. I told Pastor I had lost my sobriety, but apparently life was still good. Throughout the dream, I felt elated, even exhilarated with intoxication. I was in bliss, never happier than that morning.

It is probably my natural state to be drunk and jocular. Or anyhow, that is the way I am happy. Dreams are the expression of desires and sometimes fears. As it is, drunkenness has been my foretaste of heaven, unless there is no such place. In that case, heaven was here on earth, and now only accessible by my dreams of getting drunk. This is my honest confession. An alcoholic never really loses the drive to drink. It goes underground when he abstains, lurking dormant like a sleeping dragon. Any day it can wake up and take over the person’s will. This is why philosophy is so important to me: it stands as a fortress of reason against the wily beast caged below. But to slay the dragon would kill the whole person because it is a natural and vital part of him. The best he can do is to tame the beast.

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