Staggering under the weight of countless sleepless nights, I enter center stage and gaze into the semi-darkness, where row upon row of blank faces counter every hope and dream with bone chilling indifference.
Beads of sweat trickle down my temples, stain the back of my shirt.
I swallow, then speak.
“Alas, poor Yorick!” I offer.
“Seriously?” someone says.
“I knew him, Horatio: a fellow of infinite… ”
“Stop!” another one shouts. “For God’s sake!”
My mouth opens and closes.
The managing partner gets up, pads my shoulder, and shakes my hand and smiles.
Nevertheless, I know.
Won't get it.
D.M. over 8 years ago
You've captured that feeling of self-doubt well here.