"To live is the rarest thing in the world. Most people exist, that is all."

-Oscar Wilde


The red wine from the box is open before you even close the door. Like most aspects of your life lately, you want it before it wants you.

You slip out of your closed-toed heels while enjoying your second glass of wine. With your feet nested under both you and the white covers, you allow the alcohol to unravel the rest of your body until you're resting on top of your couch's arm. It is white, like your image, and you just want to spill the wine on top of it. You want color in your quaint house. Most of its decorations are white, excluding the black rug in the living you and the pots and pans in your kitchen. Even your counter-tops are made of some form of white marble. You think of how you wish your home was more of a calming cream than a blinding white while you engulf your third glass.

By the forth glass, there is less fight in you to change your surroundings and more fire going to motivate you to pass out somewhere more respectable- like a bed. You like that effect of alcohol – how it can turn a leader into a fumbler. You've put the box of healing inside of the refrigerator before finding your way into your room. You begin to finish your nightly routine as your white walls offend you,: washing your body and hair, brushing your teeth, putting a few aspirins and a glass of water on your bedside table, lying to yourself.

You sleep without clothes and until your alarm goes off. The first thing you do is drink the aspirins and water. You shower again because you can, then dress, and are out of your house before dawn taps you on your shoulder. You wear your hair in a bun, like usual, your suit shark and professional as you take every punctual step to your car. Everything you do in the public eye you do with purpose. Your pretend your head does not feel the consequences of your late-night cravings, you pretend with perfect posture and a smile on your face. Even when you reach the station, the steps you take on closed-toed heels are confident and the focus you use while looking over cases is stellar.

You are amazing at your job.

Stephanie James reiterates the same after you give her reasonable steps for growth in her confidence and opening up to her remaining family members. You tell her that keeping things inside isn't good for anyone, that it can lead to disastrous behavior, thinking - and worse – addictions. Stephanie James is the type of student who actually listens to you, so she nods and thinks and nods as she leaves your office. And you were thinking about the things to tell her that would be to her benefit as you drove to McKinley High. She has been showing the signs of Generalized Anxiety Disorder, something you've come to find to be familiar lately: shakiness, excessive worrying over things that don't matter, headaches, restlessness. You believe it's stemmed from her brother's death last August. It's traumatic to be the sister of a solider – or so you've heard. But you've got her to talk to her parents about her feelings and given them a list of cognitive and behavioral psychologist who would be happy to help her more closely. You would never send any of the High School students that come to you to a psychiatrist, though. Something about using medication as a crutch for happiness really gets to you – you wouldn't wish that type of dependency on anyone.

When you do finish calling down all the kids that normally need you, you turn your attention to the rest of your day. It is two-thirty on a Tuesday and you find yourself at the Rolling Seas, a local bar that's been open since you were born. You order a glass of red wine, a classy drink for such a grungy place, knowing people are watching as you slide into a booth in the far, dark corner of the bar. You know you won't be recognized by anyone, it being on the outskirts of town, so you take your time drinking your wine while observing the environment around you. It's dirty and colorful, in both its appearance and the language its customers use.

No one who volunteers to go to places like the Rolling Seas actually leaves in a regular time frame. Everyone knows you go to the Rolling Seas like work shifts. - come in at three leave at eleven. And that's what you do. You're slightly drunk by the time you reach your car. It's late and the moon is singing light in all directions.

When you get into your car, you buckle up first.

Because safety is everything to you.

And you drive to your place. Carefully maneuvering between the empty Lima, Ohio, lanes; careful to mind the speed limit and when you reach your house, you're more than ready to lie down in your bed. After your nightly routine of washing your body and hair, brushing your teeth, setting a few aspirins and a glass of water by your bedside, and lying to yourself, you wrap yourself in offensive white sheets and dream of nothing.

You wake before your alarm. Down the aspirin and water, and you start the day like you always do. You hear your closed-toed heels click as you walk into McKinley. You pass all the frustrated teachers with bold steps and leave the same way. You drink the rest of the box before showering, brushing your teeth, and setting up the necessary aspirins. You tell yourself that you are fine before closing your eyes.

You wake before your alarm. Down the aspirin and water, and you start the day like you've taught yourself how. You walk with convinced, but unsure, steps beyond surrendering educators and surrendering students but find your way to past mistakes. You stop by the store on the way to your house, you pick up a box of red wine, and you find yourself in your bed with four glasses of its contents in you.

You sleep. You wake. You drink.

You sleep. You wake. You drink.

YousleepYouwakeYoudrink.

And you continue to dream of white.