A Drink Called Bittersweet
Her eyes have been opened, again. She had a mental breakdown, the kind that left her literally gasping for air. But first, her eyes were opened. Again, and again. They’ve been opened wider and wider during the past few years; the past year alone was a clusterfuck of eye-openings itself—more eye-openings than one should have to see in that small stretch of time. Human nature, religion, love, the world. Self. Self. So much about self. She can breathe and see somewhat normally now, so she takes another gulp of bittersweet, chilled wine, the crisp fuel washing its way over her tongue, tingling her taste buds, up to her palate, and mingling with her teeth, before it falls down her throat, less smoothly than the sips before it. She only wanted to be left alone. To figure this journey out herself, apart from the culture. But this life she was a part of won’t allow that. Can’t allow that. And opening eyes don’t wait. They don’t wonder when it’s convenient for