Hemingway deserves whiskey

Book tucked under my arm.

The solitary bar stool awaits and the bar counter lonely until I embrace it with my own perceived tragedy. I order a whiskey on the rocks, splash of water – only just having had a half bottle of champagne an hour before. I sink in, finding comradery in the words and in the terse sentiments. I feel morose and realize it’s accepted between the pages, I find a friend here.

Though I am surrounded by familiarity, there is no solace gained as I drift through¬† layers of discontent and waste. These days I’m not sure at which crossroads I stand at. I see no resolve of my emotional failings or of these cycles that perpetuate themselves without my prompting.

My  glass, half empty.

I go on reading, occasionally looking up to make random eye contact with other patrons or to stare out the window. I return to inject myself into the short stories and characters lives as if they were waiting for me to do so, so I could complete myself. A joylessness and resignation of a life seems a good fit for my state of my mind. It doesn’t push me over the edge, just to it.

The ice settles into a thin wisp of watered down alcohol, having already lost it’s amber color in the melt.