What is there to look back upon? A life well spent? Most people would probably think so. High school, university, a well-paid job. Beautiful wife. Two kids. One dog. At least the dog makes me happy with his sincere demonstration of affection every time I walk through the door after yet another day of the same, same things. The never-disappearing pile of papers. When I moved up the corporate ladder last year, I thought things would change. No more paper work. After all, why would a move upwards career wise lead to nothing but a more interesting job? I was wrong. The whole idea of a career which fueled my entire upbringing was nothing but a fraud. A fake name for the same kind of job, only a little more pay but in return more hours were expected. The illusion of hiearchy where the people at the top -- the  ones we envy -- are in fact the real losers. I've never made more money in my life, yet I have never been so miserable. I need a drink.

The box of wine is almost empty even though we got a new one the day before yesterday. My wife's drinking more these days now that the kids are old enough to no longer be needing constant supervision. And with me on the job more often these days, who can blame her? She gave up a career for me and the rest of the family. I can sense the bitterness in her voice sometimes before she goes to sleep. That's the only time we've had for eachother recently. She misses her career. She would never believe me if I said that her dreams were better off as nothing but dreams. In her mind I'm living in paradise and she is stuck in this suburban hell. She is a bit of a drama queen, but her idea of the suburban hell is not all to far away at times. But the worst times are not when it's hell, but rather limbo. When it's nothing. The problem with complaining then is that there's nothing to complain about. But also nothing to be happy about. Maybe I'll leave the box of wine for her to empty tomorrow. Probably immediately after me and the kids have left for work and school. It's sad, but I really cant blame her. I promised her everything and she ended up with nothing. Something stronger than wine will be necessary for me to get some sleep tonight.

One of our clients sent me a whisky as an extra sign of appreciation. A 16-year-old whisky, which reeks of smoke and tar. Apparently, this is what I'm supposed to appreciate these days. A beer would be nicer. But I need the alcohol. The burning sensation so closely related to intoxication does little to help. This expensive, vile, stuff belongs more in the sink than down my throat.

The stairs squeak under my feet and some extra focus is needed to move them from one step to the other. They're all sleeping. Tonight I came home so late that I didn't even get to see them. Tomorrow evening will be the same. A lifetime spent at workplaces around people who come and go on their way up whatever ladder to perceived success they are climbing at the moment. A lifetime with people who do not care about you other than for their personal gain. Days, weeks, months and years have flown by so that the ones I love would have the best life possible. So that we would have the best life possible. How I have robbed them of everything that truly mattered. Of course they don't say it and seem to enjoy the things I buy for them. But I know better. I can feel it and it makes me sick. Something needs to be done, but being trapped in this hamster wheel robs you of your imagination. I'll think of something.

Downstairs the dog is beginning to walk about. Something seems to be worrying him. Or he's simply just a little restless. He does, after all, have a life even more unfulfilling than my wife. How he manages to stay so satisfied and happy is beyond me, but I am glad for him.

Going down the stairs is even more difficult than trying to get up them. My head feels strange from the tar-smelling liquid poured into it not long ago. But while the legs are not working as well as they should, my mind is starting to see things more clearly now. Apparently this internal conversation with myself is somewhat therapeutical. Even though money is all I actually have, not having to spend them on a psychologist feels good. An old whisky and some serioius thinking does the trick. So many shrinks would be put out of business if people knew that.

The dog is standing by the door. Even though it's late he feels as if he will be allowed to go outside. Dogs are strange creatures. They can sense things. All animals seem to be able to sense things that we as people have no clue about. I wonder if we used to have that ability? Before we got stuck in what we today call life.

I walk to the door where he stands. He looks at me and then at the door. It's a simple but efficient way of communication. I take off his collar and open the door. One final glance at me before he disappears into the night. I go into the kitchen and leave the whisky glass on the kitchen counter. My hand reaches down the sink. The knife is still there. Fingers wrap around the handle. I bring it with me as I go back upstairs.