From an Empty Bottle

I was always intrigued by those who got drunk on Happy Hour. My curiosity sparked a certain need to know more about them and about their lives, and I just had to investigate them. I don’t know the reason, but I always found them mysterious, somewhat interesting. They looked wise yet dim-witted, happy yet morose.

Sometimes they spoke of revolutions with passion, and hope burned like fire in their eyes. Other times, a certain air of despondency took over them and black clouds followed them wherever they went.

In these bars I sat in dark corners and sketched them in my notebooks. With all their differences, they all somehow looked the same.

 

Then I talked to them.

 

I asked for their names.

I asked about their daily lives.

I asked for their advice.

And I asked if they needed help.

 

They all said the same thing. “I don’t know.”

 

They didn’t know.

And I didn’t know.

And I became one of them.