Sitting astride in a chair, watching as the ice slowly melts in a somewhat cheap blended whiskey, it occurs to him that much of one’s life can be seen within that glass: a watered-down version of what an older man envisioned for his younger self.   Can he pinpoint exactly when the road forked, or did the worm glacially turn over in its grave?

     

     It’s an odd feeling, trying to measure mortality against the successes and failures of a life not quite led to its fullest.  Not quite healthy, not quite happy; mostly just… being.  Which, truth be told, isn’t exactly the worst place to find yourself.  There’s a certain comfort afforded by being just what you are at this moment, good, bad or indifferent.

                

     The problem becomes finding the want to be better, or at the very least, a better version of whatever this is.  Presumably, it’s there.  The ambition to match the realization.  The actualization, however, takes a certain commitment that isn’t so easy to identify. 

                

     We now see a man worn by his perceived frivolity and indifference slowly place the glass on the countertop, realizing that it was indeed a simple metaphor.  He has come to understand the glass, empty of its sweetly distilled contents, is exactly what the mirror sees.  It is in the fading daylight the epiphany emerges, not as a punch, but as a delicate touch. 

                

     I can be better… I can be much better… I can be the best parts of what I should’ve wanted for myself all those years ago.  There’s still time on the clock and I have downs to go.  No need for a timeout, I know exactly what play to call…

               

     Well, then run it and let’s get the hell out of here…