Cabin Juice

Flowed down, through my throat, and ran vivdly through my veins with no hesitation to depress my synapses, and have me succumb to the feelings of relaxation and happiness. An escape from life itself it had seemed. Not only to give credit to the hard alcohol mixed with juices of crushed, freshly-picked blackberries and Coke, but to my friends and the nature itself. Floated away into the abyss of my eyelids. Deep, so deep, with not much to gaze, but the figments of my reminiscent mind. My body now laid useless on the blanketed ground, but my mind still drunk, and still remembering.

The first night shot off with a crisp opening of a can of beer, and fizzled and popped, mirroring the night sky. Shot of hops and bubbles escaped the dark hole, and meteors burned across the night, leaving only seconds of gaze and bewilderment. They left minute scars on my girl, the sky, but she did not mind that night. The intensity of our love seduced her and I to gentle and silent breathing, sadistic focus of quick pain, intoxicated to high cirrus mist and beer, and her stars and my eyes gazed into each other, with no other thought in mind, but love. My three companions and one older urged me to speak and show excitement, but I only replied with a sigh. I did not want to bother the love that my girl and I had that night. We never have felt this kind of attraction before. Virgin to our own love. It only happens when I am in the aircraft, but this was something that we had not done before, and her and I were flowing with the moment. That night she painted her face in constellations and bejewling scars. I had nothing to offer but my naked face, scarred and serious. But we only stared, quietly, and let our souls reach to Heaven.

Morning came too soon, and I crept the woods prowfully, without purpose, but to breathe. The rest of the camp had awoken later, and quickly brushed off the nightly dust. The oldest cared to the cabin, and made sure there was food for our young and fastened stomachs. The other two close friends carried off into chopping wood, and freeing their spirits with every strike of the axe. She and I carried to our own goofiness, as we cheerfully shot videos of memories to not be forgotten. As she wrote away into her diary and own storytelling, I carried off and ventured into the old rotting cabin. Its windows and wood frame broken and torn into from mysterious acts of erosion, aggression, and carelessness. The floors creeked, beckoning my daring soul to gaze in deeper into what stories the cabin would tell. However, the walls, doors, and roof bellowed over the floor's whispers, and shunned me from entering. The fear was shuddering but so enticing, and I carried on into its mystery.

The afternoon chased railroads. She and I walked at paces slower than the rest of the adventuring group. As we always do, we demonstrated that our friendship is not comparable to the average eye. We strolled under the sunlight that kissed each pine and leaf that casted shadows on the rusty railroad, and that glistened rays into our eyes. The railroads left imprints of the far-ahead crew, and we continued our pace, analyzing and painting only copies, slight masterpieces to what vision truly held. Then, the King's Hole welcomed the whole-hearted and cheer. The three of us wrestled and swam in water that was second only to the Arctic seas. The two calmer souls watched us with happiness and wonder, pondering thoughts of like why three men would be so crazy to jump in such chill, and of why we do what we do.

We laughed ourselves into the night, reminiscent of high school, its joys, pains, flows, tedious. My girl kept to herself that night, as she blushed away behind the magnificent tree heights, showing only the slightest of stars. The fire crackled warmth and memories. Each pop beckoned another teacher, another student, another event, and another thought. I gazed into the fire, not blinking, just staring at its passion and dance. Reminded me that I feel for these people that sat around me, and those that should have been sitting around the fire. I am passionate that all of our frendships that circled around the fire were so warm and concerning. I only thought that thought, because that was all there was to think about, it was the only thought that seemed true and right for the moment.

The morning came too fast again, and it flowed back to what teens do best, party. We unrevealed the alcohol and beer, and began our drinking to our hearts' content. Loud and boisterous, disturbing the peace that was there. But we didn't care, we took shots to friendship and more. We danced and played the games that we knew would help us in our goals to inebriation. Some of us slept, while some of us walked restless, chasing off the alcohol and the river and the bridges and the bushes of blackberries. But we met up again in the night, circled one last time around the fire. Cabin juice...a little drink she and I made. Five freshly-picked, alcohol-marinated blackberries, crushed with two to three shots, and mixed with Coke. And it flowed down my throat, and without hesitation to soothe my body and mind.

I laid there, staring into my eyelids. Ran away from reality, and ran away from stress. Laid there useless. Ran towards thoughts of my friends who were there and not, and ran towards the amazement of how I am so lucky and happy to be who I am. Cabin juice, cabin juice, cabin juice. Probably the best drink made, and probably one of the most memorable trips I had taken .