Susto

Early in the evening, the floor is empty. An unknown singer croons for a handful of patrons. She came all this way. We drink our beer and wait for the next act. They get on the stage, all mid-twenties angst and their lives as failed musicians ahead of them (or not, it's too soon to say). The dream is alive and well. 

I stood there, swaying quietly to the music, cheap beer fizzing in my plastic cup, watching my life flash before my eyes, and it occurred to me. I'm perpetually poor, but I keep saving my money, a hidden pile slowly growing outside my line of vision. I'm always saving my money. Perhaps my subconscious knows me better than I know myself. I'm preparing for the unknown. And the road lies open ahead. 

On the flight home, a late red-eye, everyone uncomfortably aching to get home, a young man's mind at last cut him loose and broke. We dove quickly into an unexpected airport, lights on and everyone scrambling to get a good view of the debacle. The story made its way back through the rows, how they had to restrain him, how they shouldn't have let him on board to begin with, and someone two rows ahead filmed what little there was to see, flashing lights steady on the tarmac. And all I could think of was how terrifying a world must be that you do not comprehend. We scream at these visions in our dreams, but we wake. 

I say if I'm going to gamble, I have to be willing to lose my hand. 

But maybe I'm just looking for an out.