Pool Night Finale

What drives people to write? Some are driven by the writers bug more than me; I've managed to refrain from sharing my thoughts for some time. A moment of lucidity or enlightenment I might share with the dear reader. Perhaps it is ego, or merely the need to pass on a discovery of knowledge so that it can further our understanding of our selves and our existence. What gives? I give, and I come back with a need to share a journey, albeit short, it may provide a foundation upon which to build a thorough standing of our need to communicate and open ourselves to ridicule...

I had walked home from my weekly pool tournament. As always, I tend to drink too much. Inebriation doesn't prevent from being a competent competitor, I've always played pool; the actions are ingrained in my muscles as the wrinkles around my eyes. Pool, for me, represents the decisions we make in life, where choices are made based on the confidence of our own abilities.

I sat at the bar, a pint glass of beer, half full, sitting before me. 'This is Canada' I said to myself - awareness is is something that we take for granted; I repeat to myself on a daily basis that I am in Canada. The man next to me frowns at the bill he has been handed. "More than you expected?" I slur at him, the words avalanche from my mouth, burying him in furrowed contemplation.

"No it's fine." he replies. I look at him, he looks as if the world pounced upon him for a piggy back ride. I smile deceptively. The barman glances over and continues to dry glasses as if he had pretended to be deaf many times before. I spin the beer glass in my hand and recall earlier that night:

"I have something to show you...", I pulled out the three transfers from my back pocket. Two read 13th October at 3.33PM. "Look at this," I said to the couple next to me, "I didn't even wait for these, I just showed up," I dragged the third ticket out and exposed it in their direction, "14th October, 4.44PM... Is that weird or what?" The girl looked at me as if undecided about how to respond. "I didn't wait for these, I just showed up..."

Once again at the bar, I pulled the tickets out. "I'm psychic you know" - When I said those words, it was as if I had committed a grave sin; by declaring yourself psychic to the world, you may as well commit to a mental asylum. They looked at me then continued as if I had not said anything at all. The alcohol coursed through my veins and I could feel it, thinking how crazy I might have sounded - "Yeah, it sounds messed up, but I'm psychic, even I find it hard to believe myself." Nothing, silence from confusion.

After what seemed a long time, the guy next to me replied, "So what make you think that?"

"I can see everyone's life." The words spring from my mouth without warning and I am thinking I sound like a crazy person.