I have an idea of the stereotypical Saturday night, likely from media I’ve seen and anecdotes I’ve heard. The night where friends get together for drinks and laughter while they can.
On a saturday night, some have nights just like this. Some get drunk at bars and eat pizza. Some go to wild warehouse parties and stay up well past midnight. Some have private fun with friends. Some chat with far-away lovers.
On a saturday night, some stay inside and enjoy their solitude. Some are content to read or play video games. Some take walks outside alone. Some have wine for the taste, not to cover up any loneliness.
On a saturday night, some are stuck working. Some catch up on overdue paperwork. Some are stuck in a busy food line. Some serve drinks to patrons they nervously watch drive home. Some have peaceful shifts where families dine together, or horrible ones where fights tear them apart.
On a saturday night, some are withering away. Some are suffering heartbreak. Some are mangled in freak accidents. Some look in a mirror silently before shattering it with their fist. Some are watching their loved ones die in a hospital. Some are dying in that same hospital.
On a saturday night, every conceivable good or bad event is happening.
On a saturday night, it’s like every other day and night. Some nights it’s both harder to, and more important to, remember that.