Shot Glass.

Adrenaline and emotional pain, poured into a shot glass for your heart to drink.

You’d call it poison, I’d call it life.

Life, like the pound notes entering your pocket, but bleeding through the hole at the bottom as you try to pay the debtor for “one more day”.

Like the great staircase leading upwards, whose only requirement is that you step on the head and bodies of others to ensure there’s enough space for you to claim as yours.

You’d call it deplorable. Some would say “Competition”.

Competition as basic as who gets into work the earliest to bask in some sweet brownie points of being “ever ready” to get to work. Or is it the excellence in one’s field as they struggle to show that their work is worth taking notice off above others?

Or maybe it’s the “trying-to-1-up-you-by-showing-you-how-much-I-can-provide-for-you-when-contrasted-with-how-much-you-can-provide-for-me-” sort of battle, as couples hug in public as they joust in their individual mental landscapes.

Some would say its healthy.

Others would liken it to alcohol.

But after the first couple shots, the burning feeling in your chest dissipates as your body temperature rises from the pot of emotions bubbling underneath.

Words start to slur as words decide to stop lying on your behalf. Memories merge into an amalgamation of horror and fancy as you play the “What If?” game with yourself.

Then the world spins, and you taste the exotic dish of hard granite and dirt on your lips to pass the night.

And for a moment,
however brief,
It
all
just
stops

And then you awake.

 

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