What are We?
Glasses leave rings behind, fairy rings of moisture that entrap us just as well. Humans are desperate, we’ve always lusted for an emotion that will makes us fucking feel something- we want to be in love, we want to be rich, we want to kill, we want to be right. We’re all constantly drowning and with every scrape of our hands in the water we just keep from losing air. We just keep from sinking down so far that swimming back up would clamp our muscles to nothing, would clamp our chests with strong hands. We play a game of the inevitable because feeling water rush into our throat and nose and lungs sounds more painful than always being afraid of it. Are we the whiskey, scrambling to the bottom of the glass in our inane efforts to out-maneuver our fate, or are we the wood, something slowly rotting and only continuing to be tainted as time goes on?
For more features, such as favoriting, recommending, and reviewing, please go to the full version of this story.