Is the human condition at an expense of the American dream?

On the walls, in crayon, haphazardly drawn lines bound by youth lay the spirt of a child who is now pouring a bottle of cheep vodka into a stanly cup for the age worn women sitting on the couch. She just got home, and to make things nice she poured out her cob salad into a too large semi transparent, yellowing oil stained bowl. It’s better she thinks, more homely as she roughly digs her fork though dressing drenched green leaves. The crunching of wet vegetation, smacking of her lips and now the muted thud of thermos placed upon a time burdened table. Of which its use is by determined by its sentimental value rather than what it actually is. Mother to daughter, grandmother to sister, daughter to mother, cacooned in stains and lost dreams, passed down and held through and within, for its idea outprices the cost of anything she could afford.

The edge of a transparant piece of tape slowly unsticks and gracefully curls up at the end. She takes her index finger and smooths out the corner, the shallow pink from her finger tips turning white as presses, hoping that it holds out a little longer than it can. The child, now sitting crossed legged at the her foot, loyal and doe eyed weatches her coyly though the plastic bowl on her lap.

“Boy!” she says gruffly, “this is too strong!”

“Go on and fix this”, she demands as a loud muted thud hits the tired old table. He stands up, overgrown in awarkward places and gingerly walks the cup to the kitchen to fix her a different drink. Unable to comprehend how much to pour out, thinking does the color blue means blue and if orange tastes like orange, he dumps some of the liquid onto the unwashed dishes in sink. Next to the dog eared drawing patched with “grandmas’s favorte” he sees a bottle of purple vitiman water and pours a bit into cup, replacing what was gone with something new. Careful to screw the lid on tight, he gives it a good shake before placing it back on the table and resuming his role as her left leg sentury.

It’s friday night she thinks, she can have a drink on friday a night after a long day of work. It’s the least she deserves, after all the running around, after all the angry irite people, after all the years, and after all the years she has left. Theres solice in the quite and as the alchoal floods her brain, its becomes louder and she grows stiller. Her mind buzzing and blank, travels far away and tucks into a place where she once had dreams that didn’t seem so far away and out of reach.

To a time where if she thought hard enough and added enough color, her imagination could propel her up and away. Oh the places she coulgo! Where there was fun to be done, and points to be scored.

To a place where her hair was long and blonde and her body a paradise in the hands of a lover. At a night that lasts a long as she could take it, with a horizon that never reaches, always pushing towards to more. For if what she could be and what she could become is more than what she could be ment for, as seen in the eyes of her lover and the fist from her father. There will always be more than what they tell you.

Growing dark and too heavy, sadness always weights more when your drinking. And to escape is to feel more? and when you feel too much how quickly does it start to become less? Mabie the point is not to escape but to go inside a place that allows you to finally grasp at your greif, touch pieces the of your broken dreams, and feel your failures. Again and again, over and over, inside her emional sensory deprivation tank.

Pulling her self out with her phone as her life jacket, and decides what better than to listen to music. Alone in her living room, a boy by her leg, and dirty bowl on the couch, encompanied by too many pairs of shoes and the quiet hum of silence and a buzzing that only she could feel “because i’m happy…” the singer sings. as the sun beings to set and room becomes darker and messier. And As the sun beings to set and room becomes darker and messier, she sings along with him.

In the courner of her eye the edge of tape unsticks and curls up again. The boy takes his fingertip and presses at the end, hoping to hold on longer than he can.