There
was a bar that could not be found by those who are willingly submissive to
the constrictions of what they call “reality” and the chains of
society. No, only dreamers were able to see the neon sign in the
darkest nights when the stars and the moon were hidden behind clouds.
Artists of all kinds – writers, painters, poets, sculptors –
stumbled through the door from wherever they were in the world.
They
found themselves in a room lit by stars inside spheres of stained
glass. Soft, otherworldly music floated through the air with no
discernible source. And behind the bar of purple, polished wood that
was not of Earth stood a woman with eyes like the far reaches of the
universe: Dark, endlessly deep, constantly changing.
Whenever
a new guest stumbled in through the door, confused as to where they
had gotten themselves into, she smiled and beckoned them over to the
bar. They sat down on the empty stool in front of her. There was
always an empty stool right in front of her at the bar. The guest sat
there, unable to tear their gaze away from the woman’s eyes until
she would set a glass down in front of them. Her speciality was pine
sap liquor, set aflame with the Northern Lights. It forced a peculiar
wanderlust, drawing imbibers to mountaintops.
The
new guest took the first sip, wary of the strange, colourful flame
that reminded them of the Aurora Borealis. But then the bitter sweet
taste of the liquor hit their tongue and their eyes sparked with new
inspirations. In silence, they finished their drink, worlds forming
in their mind with every sip, waiting to be put into words, or banned
on canvas, or given form in the contours of a sculpture.
And
the woman behind the bar smiled, watching and waiting. The guest
jumped from their stool, knowing that they could not put their ideas
into tangible shape just yet. There were mountains to conquer first.
They had to bask in the grandeur of the world lying spread before
them and only the stars above them. Almost as an afterthought, the
guest remembered to pay and reached for their wallet. But the woman
shook her head.
“Next
time.” She told them, her voice a soft whisper, her eyes sparkling
with an eternity of untold stories.
The
guest just nodded and walked out the door. They would come back. They
always came back after they found the bar once.
And
the woman cleaned their glass, smiling to herself, knowing that she
had done nothing but unlock the vast treasury inside her guests mind
and that both they and the world would become a lot brighter for it.
The starlight lamps kept shining in the bar, the woman kept serving
her special liquor to those who could find her bar, never ageing,
never changing, while the world outside the door kept turning.
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