Joy in Brevity

A couple weeks ago, I went to a college party to drown my sorrows in what was left of a bottle of Skyy vodka that used to sit on the ledge between the kitchen and dining room in my apartment.

Obviously, that bottle no longer sits there, not only because I drank far too much of it leaving not a trace in the navy plastic bottle, but also because two of my roommates moved all the alcohol from that shelf. This is disconcerting to me, far more than it should be.


However, each afternoon, as the sun set, rays of light would make their way through the westward facing kitchen window and dance along the wall next to my computer, carrying with them the colors of different alcohol bottles.

It was like a little, personal aurora borealis, every single day, in my living room.

Now the alcohol bottles sit inside of an otherwise unused entertainment center behind my back. They are lit by a black light, which itself creates quite a pretty light show. However, it's just there all the time, and I can turn to look at it whenever I want.

It doesn't have that ephemeral, only for a moment quality that it used to have.

When I tried to explain to my roommates this situation, they didn't understand. All they saw was a more efficient shelf on which to store the alcohol, a less precarious place for the glass bottles to sit. I saw it as taking away one of my favorite minutes of each day.

I guess I'll have to find new little things.