Sammie runs her finger across the bump on her forehead and picks at the scab atop. Her sullen arm drags itself towards the spirit and ice to her right and her fingers clasp the body. She tilts her head from the table and begins to swirl the contents, moving it closer to her drawn chin to burn her throat on swallow. The ice twinkles as she replaces the cup, but it’s masked by the crunch that follows it passing her lips.
If words, like her future would just present themselves in front of her.
What does it truly mean to be successful.
Sammie wonders if she’ll ever feel fully content. The feeling sometimes sits there, comfortably like a full belly after a meal. But more often than not she cannot strike the balance, feeling both over and underwhelmed by consumption. Nothing is ever enough and yet everything appears far too much to handle.
Will life always consist of juggling 9 hours spent working on someone else’s ideas, and one or two crammed into a depleted mind, where creativity lingers but never quite presents itself. Like a shadow in the dark when you’re home alone. You think it’s there, but really it’s an illusion orchestrated by a tired and overworked mind.
Can one find a life in the bottom of their glass? Sammie wonders if she’ll find meaning when the dregs are gone. She hasn’t yet, but they say you need to spend 10,000 hours to master something. She just hasn’t drunk enough whiskey.
