Bottled Me: The Juice of My Soul
It sat on the shelf, glowing faintly in the sunbeam that pierced my dusty little studio window. A glass bottle—small, squat, corked at the top, and swirling with a color I couldn’t quite name.
Not quite red. Not quite gold. It shimmered like the memory of a sunset on the best day of your life.
No one believed me when I said I’d done it. That I’d distilled a piece of my soul into something tangible.
They said it wasn’t possible.
They hadn’t seen the sleepless nights, hunched over journals and dreams, sketching out feelings and grinding up experiences like herbs in a mortar. They hadn’t watched me bottle the pain of heartbreak, the electricity of first love, the salty laughter of a childhood summer, the bitterness of failure, and the quiet hope that never fully died.
It was all in there.
One sip, and you’d feel it—me.
Not the polite version I wear out in public.
Not the curated personality for interviews or parties.
But the raw, pulpy essence of who I am when no one’s looking.
People lined up to see it. Asked what it tasted like.
I told them, “It tastes like what you forgot about yourself.”
And one by one, they’d take a sip.
Some cried.
Some laughed.
One person threw up.
Another just hugged me and walked away.
It wasn’t for everyone. But it was me. Bottled, messy, and luminous.
And I’d do it again.
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