Bulletproof

I quit my job, he says. It was taking up too much time, and when I look back at any job I've had, I realize that none of them mattered. He crafts his  day in artistic fervor, writes and rewrites with lunatic dedication, while I while away the days over frivolous rhyme. His excitement ignites mine as well -- it always did. We were young, once, we were 18 and the world lay at our feet and when he told me to run into it, I did. I have forgotten so much.

He seems to be dancing still.

The call ended, the houselights came back on. I see how you walk down that wide, paved road of common expectations, make your way down the checklist without fail. But what if he is right, and we are wrong? What if life is better lived in madness? The apartment you own, the money that you've saved, the job that is appropriate and a clever next step, one day you will look back at them.

Will you think they mattered?