Ghost of its Flavour

The grey was fading to black as the world was growing tired, and the large full moon was now gleefully centre stage and reveling in its spotlight.

He walked into the front room and exhaled with a deep purposeful sigh.

His mind was racing with questions left unanswered, and perhaps, as he often thought might be the case, his mind was not even aware of what it was trying to solve. Whatever the question, and whatever the answer, his mind pondered and queried and swirled and whirred to such an extent that he was sure that it would implode in an act of defiance.

And despite the exhaustion, he could not help but feel that something was there, so close to him, that he could feel its presence. It felt as though it was pulling at him from a different dimension, its hand thrust through an unseen barrier and screaming for help - urging him to meet it.

But, just as his thoughts spun and rose and hurried in excitement, rising and rising as it so often did bouncing off of every word and rhythm, spoken in his mind or intuitively felt… so too did kettle screech in delight at fulfilling its duty.

The water flowed harmoniously into the cup as though a smooth and pure essence of life itself condensed to one single strand, having perfected its art after thousands of years. As the cup sat still the magic within began to take shape.

The dried leaves breathed into life and slowly started to unfurl in the warm embers of the hot water; and as they began to blossom so too did the ribbons of colour begin to bleed, staining the water with the ghost of its flavour. Thin wisps of steam rose from the potion and they danced and spiraled as they ascended into the cold air of the small kitchen.

His pale-green creation lay like an emerald on the counter-top, and it shone and glistened as the light refracted through its misty layers, and he moved it to the front room.

He sat it down as it left its mark on his now red and very warm hands.

He looked to the wooden ceiling and tried with all his might to see through it, to gaze through the borders of the living world. He looked with all his might, but the imagined abyss stared back with not so much as a whisper.

The most unsettling thought was that he had already found the answer.

Something had been sitting heavy on his soul and had been adding to his anxiety. It has been there, at the very edge of his vision; a small and almost silent whisper, a slight breeze that calls to attention the hairs on his arm but that does not pierce the skin.

What scared him the most was the chains that had bound him and kept him shackled and bound, were of his own making. Whether it be the fear of the truth or the conditioning of society, he had perhaps had the key the whole time.

The closer his mind got to the answer, the more it tried to fight him, to hide something from him.

He let out another sigh.

His thoughts were interrupted this time by the soft patter of the rain. The rhythmic tapping brought him from out of his head and his soul felt the warm hum of comfort.

He turned off the light and lit the candle on the table beside him. As he blew cold air through his pressed lips into his cup, he allowed himself to sink deeper into the sofa.

The tender flame now brought a dark orange hue to the room, and the shadows appeared and joined him in his blissful safety. They bobbed and danced to the flickering of the candle fire, and he tasted the beauty and flavour of his green tea.

Perhaps the quandaries of the soul can wait until tomorrow.