But what if, like in my case, luck always has its way of plunging its arm in the water right before I drowned? So much for Shakespeare.
Yes, time to talk about mortality again, and age, and regret. But also about meandering roads that don’t even appear to intersect.
All I have are forks and departures – as the poet I am now reading once said: “All I can tell you is this: what we are not, what we do not want.”
Is it really as easy as picking a profession, or say, your favorite color?
No matter how hard I exert my influence on fate, my concerns and my passions always have their way of finding me. Like sticks skewered to my tongue, I cannot pick my own words.
Inspiration is given and handed down.
Even if there are no seraphic songs or jewels presented to future saviors, even if most of the time I can only see salt shining in the mud.
Cut, tapered, and edited: that’s how life should be lived.
Without this confusion of choices.
Even when right from the beginning, I already knew the answers.