What’s the best wine to drink when your heart’s torn, flattened and tattered like roadkill; when you’re choked with rage and disillusion?
No wine, I suspect.
So it may be a while before I post again.
But even though I know that wine would be like ash in my mouth right now, I know too that I’ll be back.
Because wine — like love — has that never-quite-there shimmer to it. That aching promise of perfection and communion that remains — always remains — tantalisingly out of reach. And that’s the whole point of it. It’s never the platonic love thing, the two-parts-that-click-together-without-a-join thing, the yin and the yang thing.
It’s a broken, worldly, human thing, and that’s why it’s addictive, beautiful, imperfect, beautiful.
Thanks for bearing with me, y’all.