Farid had been sober for five years, but the echo of his past still reverberated in every room he entered. The smell of whiskey on a cool evening, the warmth of a glass pressed against his lips, the rush of forgetting—it haunted him in moments of stillness. He had learned to replace the craving with quiet walks, long books, and the slow rebuilding of his life. But there were nights, like this one, when the world felt hollow, and the pull of that old, comforting numbness felt irresistible.

Tonight, he found himself wandering through a small bookstore in the city’s old quarter, a place where the walls smelled of dust and old paper. He wasn’t sure why he was there. He had come for nothing, but found something unexpected—a thin, weathered volume wedged between stacks of thick, unread tomes. The title was simple: The Wine of Love.

Curious, he flipped through the pages, his fingers brushing over words that seemed to burn brighter with each turn. It was a Sufi text, the mystical writings of Rumi, of the beloved's intoxication through divine love.

He read aloud under his breath:
"We are the wine; the wine is within us."

Farid closed the book, his heart thumping as the weight of the words settled over him like a veil. He had been sober for years, but in this moment, he felt something awaken inside him—an ancient thirst that had nothing to do with alcohol. This was different. It was as if the words themselves were a kind of wine, not in the world, but within the soul, intoxicating in a way that transcended the body.

He returned to the words, his eyes drinking in the lines:
"The moon is reflected in the water,
but we are the water,
we are the moon."

Each page spoke to him like a prayer, a reminder that the intoxication he sought was not of the earth, but of the divine. He was not the man who had once drowned himself in spirits, but the man searching for a deeper, truer connection to the source of all things.

The book became his companion, its teachings softening the harsh edges of his days. He learned that sobriety was not just the absence of wine, but the presence of something far greater—love, clarity, peace, and the mystical essence that filled every crack in the world with light.

Over time, Farid found himself experiencing moments of spiritual intoxication. It wasn’t in the rush of a bottle or the fleeting escape it provided, but in the stillness of dawn, the joy of a song sung with heart, the sweetness of a smile shared without words.

One evening, he sat on his porch, the sky painted with the hues of twilight. He sipped tea, his hands steady, his mind clear. And as the stars began to gather above him, he whispered softly, "I am the wine, and the wine is within me."

It was the first time he had ever felt truly, wholly intoxicated—not by the world, but by the divine love that flowed through him like a river, filling the spaces where emptiness had once lived.

Farid understood now: wine without grapes was the sweetest drink of all. And it wasn’t something he had to find—it had always been there, waiting for him to surrender.