The odds

My car is stopped in the middle of the interstate right now. My fault. Ran out of gas. So I’m here, right now, waiting for help. I have no where to go. It’s OK.

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My emergency lights tick like a metronome, hypnotizing me to sleep. But then a semi truck rumbles by at 70 miles per hour and rattles my black station wagon just enough to keep me awake.

I’m here, in the middle of Massachusetts, because today I drove two hours today hoping to gain a little certainty about my future. I came back with Schrödinger’s Box still sealed shut. I like to think I handle uncertainty well, in the same way I like to think I’m good at poker. I like to think I’m OK surrendering my fate to the odds of the universe, but I’m scared she will rage as if I just woke her. I fear she may be violent, or perhaps just immature, volatile — that she will stay away from the regression curve she is supposed to hug.

It’s OK to bet with a pair of fives; it’s OK to lose on the river; it’s just part of the sway of uncerainty. It is a pleasant daydream, filled with the type of productive reflection that reminds me of the passage of time.

I’m stuck in the middle of the interstate. I crawled to a stop on a roomy shoulder, out of fuel, where surely others have come to rest. I’m stuck. It’s OK. It will be OK.

Drew the picture above while bored in the car after waiting for an hour. I don’t know what it is either. Alien on a swing?

One response to The odds

  1. Grace

    water jug

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