Is This All There Is?
It is late, the house finally quiet, and he is sitting alone at the kitchen table with only the low hum of the fridge and the faint ticking of the clock to keep him company. In front of him, a glass catches the light from the overhead bulb, the amber liquid holding a small, private sunset. He turns it slowly in his hand, watching the swirl, as if somewhere in that glow an answer might rise.
He tells himself he is tired, that this is normal, that this is what middle years look like. Work. Bills. Responsibilities. A respectable life built brick by careful brick. Yet as he looks into the glass, another image overlays the present one: a boy running across a field with reckless certainty, convinced that the world would one day open its doors because he would demand it to. That boy had plans that felt electric. He believed in movement, in risk, in becoming something vivid.
When did that certainty soften into routine? When did ambition narrow into maintenance? He cannot point to a single betrayal, no dramatic collapse, no obvious villain. Life has been broadly good. Stable. Sensible. Safe. And yet something inside him feels slightly misaligned, like a door that no longer closes cleanly against its frame. The friction is quiet but persistent.
He senses he should change something, but the question of what presses against him like a wall. He does not want to torch what he has built, nor does he want to wake in ten years with the same glass in his hand and the same question suspended in the air. He is not looking for applause or reinvention theatre. He is looking for alignment. For the faint but unmistakable feeling that he is walking towards something rather than simply holding ground.
The whiskey glows. The clock ticks. The boy he once was does not accuse him, but neither does he disappear. He waits.
Have you ever felt this way?
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Ian Simon
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Is This All There Is?
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