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The Spin

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I play the game like I breathe automatically, rhythmically, involuntarily.

They say roulette is about chance. I disagree. It’s a ritual. A performance. A reenactment of failure with different lights each time. I sit at the table, my fingers brushing the cool edge of fate, and I bet. Again and again...

Not for the win. Not for the thrill but for the cycle.

The wheel turns. It always turns. I watch the blur of red and black blend into gray. That lifeless, hollow hue. The absence of color. The perfect shade of my evenings. No screams, no glory only the familiar clack of the ball as it mocks me.

People ask why I play, as if I have a choice. As if I haven’t already sold pieces of my soul to each spin. "The house always wins," they whisper. What if the house isn’t a building? What if it’s the emptiness inside watching, waiting, feeding?

I try to remember the first time I sat down. The first coin. The first prayer I didn’t believe in. But it’s all a smear now. A spiral.

How is it possible to repeat the same robbery and still feel surprised by the emptiness left behind?

I don’t chase money. I chase the moment just before the ball lands. The half-breath of hope. The stutter in my pulse. That’s the only time I feel... real. Then the number hits and I vanish. Just another shadow in the blur. Another loser in a game no one was meant to win.

And yet tomorrow, I’ll return. Not out of hope. Never hope.

Just... habit.

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