Crossroads. Choices. I don’t knowwhat to do. I don’t want to deal with them anymore. I feel like a frail,struggling butterfly pinned up against a wooden slate, wings fluttering,strength draining, death hovering. Well, perhaps the death part is a littlemelodramatic. But the tendency to exaggerate has always been dominant withinme. I feel trapped, anyhow. Not because I don’t have any choices, but because Ihave too many. That sounds pretty shallow, now that I reflect upon it. Afterall, who complains of having too much freedom? But you do. Oh, you do. Youcomplain when you want everything and you realize that you can’t haveeverything, and the thought of choosing one path twists your heart because ofthe benefits of all the other paths you’re leaving behind. Opportunity cost, asthey say, something an economics student like me should be well accustomed tonow. Or maybe it’s as Sylvia Plath says, “Perhaps when we find ourselveswanting everything, it is because we are dangerously close to wanting nothing.”That line confused me when I read it first, but now it makes absolute,beautiful sense. An ominous sign. Oh yes. A perilous thought.
I don’t know which of the choicesI want more. But the one thing I do know I want is you. I want to be with youagain, feel your arms wrap around me, your lips brush against my forehead. Iwant to sit out with you on the steps leading up to my front porch, darknessdescending, swallowing us, the air warm and thrumming softly in silky silence, theperipheries of trees turning black against the deepening sky. And I would lookat you then and know that I have come home, understand that there can be nogreater joy than this, no matter how many continents I traverse, how manyoceans I sail over. To love and to beloved. It’s the greatest bliss of all. And as the birds retire, and thestars emerge, I would sit and rejoice in our harmony, in the simplicity yetwondrous multiplicity of it. But such thoughts are painfully futile. Becauseyou aren’t on the list of choices I have. You’re crossed out completely. And Iwould give everything I have just to be able to pencil you into the sketch of mylife once more, ease you in like no time has passed. It wouldn’t be difficultfor me even, to close my eyes and pretend that years can be compressed to the equivalentof mere hours. It would be effortless. But then, it isn’t up to me any longer.Sometimes I think it never was, and I was a naïve unsophisticated fool to thinkotherwise.
A bitch whines morosely outsideas she limps her way up the street. I stand up; wrap my sweater around metightly. I remind myself that it’s not summer anymore, it’s the depth ofwinter, and years cannot be hours, no matter how many times I declare they are.Magic wands and happy endings don’t exist here, only in Disney movies. Andthere’s only so many of them you can watch before you outgrow them, like a pairof jeans you can no longer squeeze into, no matter how robustly you hold yourbreath. I remember the first time I shifted from cartoons to television showswith actual human beings acting. I felt so proud, so grown-up, so utterlymature, established newly within a higher plane of existence. I laugh mockinglyat myself now. I pity the child I used to be, whilst desperately envying her aswell. Paradoxically self-denying self-indulgence. I must stop being such a blurof conflicting absurdities.
I open the pages of my oldjournal, read the words I wrote about you on wishful autumn afternoons longgone, your essence contained in my familiar, sloping handwriting. Memories of occasionsthat are long gone; faded and blended into shadows. Of perfect moments that cannever be recaptured or relived, but only remain encapsulated forever in thepages of this journal, in ink staining white paper, maiming it purposelessly. Foran instant, my hand stills, fingers splayed across the page. And they bend atthe joints, suddenly and sharply, fingertips digging into the paper as an uninhibited,unbridled outpouring of bitter frustration bubbles over, nails leaving smallcrescents into the paper itself, imprints of half-moons. I consider tearing outthe papers, stuffing them swiftly into the trash bin that stands expectantly inthe corner of my room. But the impulse vanishes as suddenly as it came. Ismile. I caress the cover of the journal tenderly, absentmindedly. My minddrifts again, but I don’t admonish it for doing so. Instead, I encourage it,acknowledge the importance of mental escape, the beauty and infinite value ofit. I place the journal carefully inside my cupboard again, underneath piles ofclothing, tucked away out of sight. I push at the cupboard door, and it obligesunderneath the pressure of my palm, falling shut with a gentle, satisfying click. I leave the room, emerging intothe brightness of the hallway, my feet light upon the floor, almost prancing,my shadow trailing along behind me, gliding soundlessly across the walls, thefloor, solidly black, sinuously rippling.
Syndicated from: Random Ruminations
