The sublime oasis

A place where each person is an island, but not.

Unattached yet entangled with the rest. Take their history and there’s not a link, yet they know each other’s lives.

Connecting them is the familiarity...of those dim, yellow lights. The mahogany cabinets and rugged wooden tables. Those overused, abused cushions. The glimmering chandeliers. That one broken windowpane.

They are the regulars.

Could be rivals, could be friends. Might help each other, might not even acknowledge.

It’s vulgar but warm. It’s dingy but addictive. Here, rivers of elixir flow.

It’s a place frequented by the same people, every day, every evening. Some work, some don’t. Some waste away, some grow. Some come with friends, some alone.

It’s a favourite of those who lust after experiences; they are poets, writers, painters, dreamers, philosophers. Their drunken eyes are full of imaginings, heads full of dreams and their hearts? They bleed.

It’s a bar.