The Little Mystic Indian Inside My Red Horse

I had already down a bottle of Red Horse and flushed without doubt, taking deep, lungful of cigarette smoke.

I could not sleep then; the socket of my eyes were tired begging for that final snap of my consciousness, the letting go to arrive at the dreamland, and my head also throbbed in intense stream of pain and jadedness. So I decided to haul myself up from my bed, go straight passed the living room into our small store and get a couple of Red Horse. If I could get myself drunk, then probably I could sleep. Cut the waiting period for my consciousness to snap so I can finally sleep. When my head hit the pillow, I expected that I would quickly black-out.

I was on my second bottle, smoking without letup as I sat before the cases of SMB and Red Horse stacked in our kitchen, when I saw a little mystic Indian smoke signalling inside my bottle of Red Horse. The smokes of bubbles rose upward in the liquid space of the strong beer, and there at the top, the smoke formed into white benevolent clouds of galactic universe of suds.

I smiled, drew my face near the bottle and trained my eyes at the world of the little mystic Indian inside the bottle of my Red Horse. I smirked and drank the liquid universe with dreamy eyes.

After a while, I knew already that I was tipsy. I was wading amidst the jungle of this world's dreamscape, steadily pushing my legs ahead, groggily tearing the heavy growth of grass and accumulation of dried leaves. I was about to stumble and fall to the ground yet I kept on with the direction in my head, from where I could feel the invisible vibration and stream of radiating flow of oneness came from -- the One. And I was heading towards His direction, to finally, at long last, rest my tired soul in his presence.