I sit by the bar. Near the busy street. People pass me by. As I watch cars speed past. Leaving blurred trails. Of different colors. Red. Blue. Green. Amber. Diffused. Transient. One trail. Makes way. For another. Everything passes. The cars. The lights. The trails. The past. Life. The trails get muddled. They merge into each other. Confused patterns. Cloud the mind. Suppress logic. Exaggerated fear. Whisky wipes the trails. To create new ones. Going forward. Erasing those I left behind. Whisky is permanent. Nothing else is.
Hansal mehta 