Lost In Drink

14:32

14:32

Lost In Drink

Rated

4

Type

guided

Activity

Meditation

Suitable for

Everyone

Plays

974

If you are looking for something more focused, and intense, with considerations of the dark side of life, this is a walk worth taking. The meditation is a contemplation and observation of both hardship, and confidence.

Focus Walking Meditation Contemplation Observation Confidence Nature Fantasy Elements Dedication To Self Mastery Hardships Nature Visualizations Senses Walking Meditations

Meet your Teacher

Denver, CO, USA

Meet your Teacher

Denver, CO, USA

Transcript

Stop, Look around, Feel for a moment just how heavy the rain is, The thick weight of the water soaking into the thin cloth on your shoulders. See how it drips off the broad oak leaves, Collecting briefly, Then falling to the forest floor? Most of all, Take in the heavy scent of water and loam. Just breathe. The path is still visible. See all those rivulets not enough to wash away the well-worn road. Take another step and feel the solid gravel, Sodden but not sinking into the mud. Pressing your bare feet into the stone, Feel the hard edges and the cool water. As you walk, Calmly but with purpose, Notice how the trees slowly thin. Watch how the trunks are as broad and heavy as before, Just as ancient, But the spaces between them grow. Feel the grass between the old sentinels expanding its reach. There. Notice how the field seamlessly bleeds into the forest. Different, But at no point fully distinct. A spectrum of tree to meadow without a line to tell you where one begins and the other ends. Settle for a moment, Watching the early morning mist drift over the young greenery and relish the beauty of this place. Breathe in and out. That is not where you are walking. Look for that little building, Remembered but not well. A hazy recollection of where it should be. There it is. Old adobe walls dark and damp, The stucco having seen many years come and go. With the wooden vigas jutting out and the slim double doors of pine, Feel how out of place this is, How the forest and the damp should just wear it away. It is a desert space, Somehow lost in the deep woods. This is fitting, Considering its patrons. As you walk forward, Feel the rough gravel under your feet, Scratching and hard, But not painful. With each step, Take in another little detail. The windows without panes, The darkened interior, And the smell. That strong, Heavy smell. Cinnamon and chili, Cardamom and yuzu, Bitter chocolate twisting through it all. A scent from everywhere and nowhere. Familiar, But certainly not home. Pause as you reach for the door and consider what you will find on the other side. And know, No matter what you expect, It won't be there. Push against that door and feel the smooth lacquered wood slide forward under your touch. Easy, Simple, Offering almost no resistance. Take a slow, Deep breath as the cool air drifts out from the interior. As you exhale, Step forward into the darkness. Carefully, Down that first step, The second, The third. On the fourth, Feel the smooth tile spread out before you, Revealing the end of the steps, Even as your eyes struggle to adjust. Ahead of you, To your left, See the massive glass cylinder held up by complicated pipes and tubes, Twisting themselves over to reach faucets and steam releases. Complex valves, All in copper, Hide the purpose of the contraption with a pale blue fluid that seems to hold its own light within. Shadows finally retreating from your vision, See how there is no light that strays in from the outside world. The only source beyond that tank is a wall of hundreds of bottles, Each twisting and writhing with its own unique shape and color. Though dim, They give you enough to see the patrons closest to you. Notice the bulky form, Massive lump bent over a booth, The thousands of mouths covering its bulbous head, Each sipping a straw, All of which lead down a tube to a small glass of a dark blue liquid. Even without eyes to mourn, See the sorrow dropping its tiny little wings and the slouch in its shoulders, Suggesting defeat. At another corner, See those thin, Sharp, Angular little things, All sipping from a thick, Clear hose, Pulling a deep red liquid with spills of black twisting through it. Notice how the substance dances around the orb that contains it, As agitated as its drinkers. Hear the cruel noise and biting, Uneasy words spat from their teeth at one another, And let that all slide past you. Against the darkened space in the back, See the hefty shape, Taller than any woman of your own kind would be, Drinking from a goblet that oozes green light, And smiling, One of the few content forms in the entire place. Watch as she smiles and nods, Amused at the transparent wisp of a form she is sharing the corner with. Seems to be simmering over a frothing, Pale pink substance which is quickly evaporating. Well, At least someone here seems to be enjoying themselves. Glance over to your right, And take note of the brutal jaws distending and pulled apart, Holding a broad, Shallow dish, Precariously balanced on the double rows of teeth. Notice the little details, The 20 rows of eyes, All small and beady, All closed. The subtle relaxation in the multiple joints, Bending the form over, And how its tripart tail lazily rolls instead of twitching, Relaxing into a corner that barely fits it. And there, As you inhale the strange smell of this place, Catch the lonely, Angry shape, Almost like you, But without eyes, Nose, Or a mouth, Huddled in a corner. Watch the frantic motions as it carefully washes its hands in a deep purple liquid, Then traces patterns across its blank, Egg-like face. None are who or what you are looking for, Nor are any of the multitudes here, All huddled in the darkest, Deepest corner of the inn, As deep dark corners are all this place is made of. Only one man stands apart, Next to that dimly glowing tank by the bottles. Thin and tired, Though ever alert, He covers his mouth with a cloth, But his eyes express much more than his lips ever could. Delicate piercings, Twining through his thin, Pointed ears, Which easily match your fingers in length, He looks to be the least imposing figure here, Except, As you inhale once more, Realize that he has met your gaze. Grinning at your expression, He gestures with his head. Follow his nod over his shoulder, And begin to walk around the bar. Even his attention returns to the heavy crystal box he was cleaning, A vessel for one of his myriad concoctions. Feel the cool tile, Perfectly pleasant, As you walk around the wall of bottles, Each of which roils at your approach, But they hold no appeal for you. With each step, Breathe a little easier, Become neither elated nor scared, But calm, Focused, As you stride. Rounding the wall of ephemeral liquors, See that pool, So familiar, And yet so foreign. There's a thick wall, Also adobe, And something that should never contain water, Yet it manages to hold up this precious liquid. As you stride with confidence up to the edge, See how there are no patrons here, All scared to come close to the deep, Perfectly clear space. And see, Leading down, There are perfectly cut steps. As a gentle whisper disturbs the surface, Look up and see one of those wraith-like shapes, A vague body of mislike indistinction. It isn't looking at you, But rather at the pool as well, And those steps. And notice how it retreats. Without fear, Lift your foot and step into that water, Feeling the cool liquid wash over your skin. Lift your other foot and let the pleasant sensation ease away your weariness. You've been traveling for quite some time, But your path continues down these steps. As the water passes your hair and you descend, Breathe in, Drawing in the comforting, Deep darkness. This has been Lost in Drink, A Blue Path meditation of the Fatal Neutrinos. Stories of histories that weren't, Futures that mustn't, And places that cannot be. This is dedicated to someone. You know who you are. It's been six years. Here's to many more. Thank you for listening. I hope your day is better, And a little more surreal for it. This is Easton. Remember, I'm as much a work of fiction as anything you hear.