Comfort is fear gilded in gold

I have a friend, let's call him James.

James lives the lukewarm existence between being someone and no-one. He wakes up and listens to a podcast while getting ready and driving to work. There he always keeps one AirPod in and does as his boss expects. Once home, James pours a gin & tonic to prepare for a night of drinking.

One day James — a favorite of the family — drives to visit his younger brother. He says he admires James, and is eager to play with him. Lying through his teeth, James stammers that he hopes his brother becomes like him one day.

James tolerates himself through constant numbing. But taking drugs as a knee-jerk reaction to headaches ensures the cause is never investigated.

What would happen if his two-hour commute was silent? How drastically might his life change if his suffocated unconscious could surface a single thought, desire, or dream?

Verily, his existence is gilded in gold. Is it not euphoric to drink all the time? Surely this explains why those who never forget their victory gin are the most contented of us.

One must imagine James happy. Yet he feels only dread.