Hash

The rustling dices and the dice cups muffled sound when they hit the tablecloths were as primitive instruments held a kind of pace in the many cross-voice cacophonous attempt to warm up for a concert that was kept alive on a mighty wave, which did not intention to break off and be crushed to sea foam to the patiently waiting coast. It was lively, but was also withheld, in a breathless second, who had thrown the eternity cloak around her shoulders.

It sounded as if all the instruments were tested and tried voted at once, before the conductor’s baton would control all in a predetermined direction.

It was time to get up for a while. Everyone had beer standing in front of them. Filled glass half-empty glass and batteries of beer bottles all the time was replaced by a white apron which brought in and lashed out in a smooth, professional rhythm. Plates were being removed, now the hash, with mashed potatoes and beetroot had legs to walk on. It provoked new feature in the cacophony: clinking cutlery on plates and dishes on plates with a robotic regularity.

He pushed the chair backwards, supported his hands against the table edge, took a swig of beer and went quietly out. No one took any notice of it as this to get up and go out or come in and sit down, was an integral part of the performance. Only when a new face came in and wanted to participate, lifted and turned their heads attentively for a moment.

Outside it was dark, mild, still and starry night. An overwhelming contrast to what he had just risen from. He was blown away by the atmosphere and sucked the starry sky to him while he felt the gentle heady feelings wear amicably through.

So he grabbed the doorknob slowly after, it was time to go back inside.

He opened the door a crack, and expected the familiar wall of voices and activity wash over it, as soon as possible to engulf him again, but only tobacco smoke, mixed with the fresh evening air and a petrified scenario was to trace. Everything was at a standstill, as if the stars had enchanted it. A strong feeling of unreality hit him. His expectations did not fit here, which ousted a peculiar sense of being outside of time and space.

Am I dreaming or am I dead, he thought, though he knew neither was the case.

He opened the door so that he could get through. Not a sound, no movements. But then all at once, as if by magic, it started all over again, as if it had just been frozen in time as he immersed himself in the night sky and then suddenly drove on again full curtains. As if nothing had happened, and as if all had been waiting for his participation in order to live again. As a film that had been broken, and suddenly was repaired. He would just like to indicate the start, but in a special way, which was under his immediate conscious horizon.

As he sat down at the table, it dawned on him that all along, had been a voice who tried to tell him something. A voice so quiet and insistent as distant almost silent lightnings at harvest. Now he would make an effort to grab what this mysterious voice had to say. It might shed light on his recent and unusual experience, and his mind began to listen inward.

¨ Bowl,¨ was said, and in the next second, he had forgotten all about the voice and slipped effortlessly into the common atmosphere. The conductor had grabbed the baton, and all was now playing on the same nodes.