Vintage

I am vintage. They come to me in twos and threes. They don’t drain me. Neither do they turn me… they need me. They drink, here and there, sustaining themselves, leaving just enough for me to survive. I replenish… they come again, because I am vintage. I am, according to some, an old soul, reincarnated over and over again, due to some damn thing still left to learn.

That woman over there says I am ascending. That woman, in white, over there, says I am moving and leaving this plane. But I beg to differ…

I am vintage, and they come in twos and threes. I am decadent and aged with elms and birch and knotted oaks. I am full of body and flavor and they come to me…they sap the strength from me…They come, seductively clothed in garments that speak of sorrow and loss, seeking a light to guide them--a mere source, a fountain from which they drink from time to time, but not to heal, just enough to sustain their own sorry existence with style.

This is what it means to be vintage… an aired wine, with no tinge or twang, all that any conniving connoisseur would want. I make them look good to themselves and I deceive myself into thinking that I help. But all I am is some thick liquid, confined in some green glass bottle, letting all negativity rise to the ethers, while all that is fine and good is consumed by something other.

She says that I am ascending…
Right…
I am still very much on the ground…and this is …most likely…because I… still don’t get it.