drinking cheap beer in front of a closed theatre on a rainy day

We stood at the entrance of a closed theatre, loitering under the roof to avoid the rain. People scurried by, some took refuge under the same roof. We'd look at them; they'd look at us. We would say nothing and neither would they.

We were guzzling cans of beer, the cheapest we could find. It was fitting for the occassion: we were broke and at a venue that didn't charge for their non-existent seats. One group left the shelter of the entrace. Another would come soon, and silence would be exchanged again.

Ignoring the transient population, we talked about life.

That's too vague.

We talked about life: how broke we were, how we had expected so much more, how things never quite came to be. We felt worthless, we felt disposable, we felt undesired - we felt great. There was freedom, a strange relief that came from knowing this.

This was a freedom that came from acceptance of oneself.

Wait, that's not right.

This was a freedom that came from having no unrealistic aspirations. No undue stress to achieve something unattainable. No goals to scramble towards with reality not just "snapping at your heels", but more "wrapping around your ribcage and clawing up your shoulder blades". Free from these things, we were discarded from the burden.

Unvalued, replacable, and rejected. Aware of our qualities (or lack thereof), we talked over the howling winds and rain.

Resignation is inherent in acceptance.