Cracked Glass

              We all at the very least know one overly optimistic person within our lives. If you don't know what I am talking about, it's the type of person that presses the thought of 'every situation possesses a silver lining' or everything happens for a reason. The worst is when they try and pressure you to look at life as 'the glass being half full'. These types of people are certainly needed in order to balance the constant fuckery we are faced with, but the number of optimists within my life is unbearable. I don't want to look at life as if it's glass. How incredibly hypocritical can one statement be. I mean, if I did look at life as if it was a glass of water, then what? Does everyone have the same type of glass? Are some people's glass more durable than others? Do the glasses vary in size? If so, then who gets to decided what type of glass a person should possess?

              If the glass was meant to be the representation of life, then, I do admit the poetic comparison of the fragility between life and glass. Then what does the water represent? Our daily lives? Obstacles? Situations? Experiences? If so, then how can we determine what goes in the glass? Is it only the 'good' experiences that go in the glass? Where do we put the bad experiences? What if our bad experiences out weight the good, what then? If we answer all these questions, then there is another variable. What if our glass is already defective?

              What if there was a crack? A crack is so deep that no matter how much 'good water' you put in the glass, it would always spill out. What then? I can imagine my optimistic constituents already in my head. 'Why don't you fix the crack' or something along those lines. Why should I? It's my own defective glass or life, so it's my decision to fix it or not. People who may be reading this may think, 'wow this person has seen some shit' but what if I didn't? My childhood was normal, my family is loving, I was well-liked in my adolescence going into adulthood. I graduated with honors from college, I have friends that care about me, and my job is satisfactory, and yet, no matter how much 'good water' I accrue it never seems to be enough to fill up my defective cup. Was what Ilia wrote in an untitled document for no one to read other than her. The foul mood was projected within her writing after she read the revisions from her editors. The comments on the dark undertones of her new manuscript weren't appropriate for the fan base of impressionable teens she garnered in the past few years.

              Ilia felt her eye twitch as she was forced to watch her editors nearly tear up her manuscript through email. The tang of iron hit her tongue when she realized her teeth pierced her bottom lip. An audible groan of disgust, as Ilia felt the urge to throw her laptop at the wall but refrained to ruin her three thousand dollar life line. The weight of coming up with stories and materials that is marketable was getting too heavy to bare, but what could she do. The glass she handled with utmost care was seemingly failing to fulfill her. No matter how much Ilia succeeded, it was never enough to fill up her glass.

              Ilia's phone buzzed against the coffee table, the name Anthony Barker flashed on the screen in tandem the twitch in her eye strengthened. The screen lit up the dark living room where Ilia was posted up for the past few weeks. '8 missed calls' popped on the screen when the vibrations on the coffee table ceased. Ilia's eyes felt heated as she got up from her sitting position, walking over to her window that looked over downtown New York. The faint honking of the evening traffic caused a light reverberation against the window. The chill of the tempered glass cooled Ilia's heated forehead.

              The problems of tweaking a narrative to be more consumable for all ages isn't a big issue. Ilia had to remind herself that many people would love to be in her position, but for some reason everything was unsatisfying. She didn't know why she felt this way. And she didn't know how to fix it? She woke up whenever she liked and got paid to write stories she created. Her career was stable and her income was enough to notably take care of herself, but take care of her family. Ilia shouldn't have problem, but every day it was there. A huge crack glaring at her in the face. She accepted that she was an adult that was in possession of a glass that was cracked and unrepairable.