I’ve often found myself starring into a black hole. That lonely despair, which lurks at the bottom of every empty beer glass. The universe compressed into that final drop of golden liquid, until that, like everything before it transforms from future hope to past memory.
I stare into my glass like an astronomer his telescope, looking backwards through time at a past ever receding from me. Places I won’t visit again; people I will never see; different versions of an early me, some sometimes better, some sometimes worse.
Somewhere in space are snapshots of all the pints I have ever drunk––pints being poured; pints settling at rest; pints half consumed; pints down to their last drop––sliced instances of time. And equally, all the pints I have still to drink. Do they number more or less than those, which have gone before? I do not know.
It is just one of those mysteries of the beer-iverse.
One thing though: doesn’t my beery froth look a bit like Saturn’s rings? Are we all just living in The Great Maker’s pint glass?
© Beery Sue
Beery Sue enjoys staring into space.