I open the door, and I see the lake. All my lives ripple along the water.
What could have been. What could still be.
I do not know what to choose. I do not know how to make what I choose real.
Sometimes it’s just nice to look. To daydream, see what makes my heart sing most. (And ignore the voice that says, Anything, anywhere, but here.)
I am trying to listen to my instincts. I am trying to listen for the signs. Are there signs?
I am trying to manage. Between desire, between expectation, between the facts of reality, between the burden of responsibility.
All my lives ripple along the water and I don’t know how to choose. I don’t know that I have a choice. But the longer I stay, the longer and deeper I am rooted here, in the one life I know I do not want.
The stone is in my hand. I feel its weight. The smoothness, the flatness. I grip it tighter, take aim, take aim again, arm swaying from side to side, my body no better able to make a decision, commit to a path, than I am. It just gets heavier. The stone, my arm, my heart, everything.
I drop the stone. I walk back through the door, back to my life. I know one day I might no longer be able to open it, and the choice will have been made for me, then. So I walk through it a lot more often now.
But what is the point, if I don’t know how to choose?