One slow finger at a time, with white-knuckled concentration, I form my hands, tightly wrapped, around the bars of life. I hold on. Reminding myself of where I am, of who I am, of what these bars represent, I hold on.
This life, the one I have chosen, the one I have made and designed and now own. This life, where I find my joy, and live my dreams, where I grow into and around myself. The bars are holding me in it. I remind myself of this, I remember that it is I who put them there.
I chose, I chose, I chose. I chose this.
It is not dissatisfaction with what is that brings these moments, fewer then they once were; it is the wanting of all of the other things I did not choose. It is the wanting of all the things, of all the lives, of all the people, of all the cities, of all the trades; it is the wanting.
Within me is a Thing that defies defining, a disease or a quirk, a trait or a wound, though the name of it shifts, the Thing itself remains. This Thing inside of me does not like to sit still. It does not like to know what’s coming day after day and year after year. This Thing, the nemesis of my content, itches for what is other over that which is.
and more and more and more.
Whatever it is, this Thing, it has met its match in me. Whatever forces my imagination to wonder, now and again and again, about the What Is Not, has met its equal in the love I have for What Is. I am fortunate in that I have recognized, young and early, this Thing that shreds what it has and then mourns when it is gone. I am smarter then this Thing, so far and thank God. Where love lacks there is intellect, where intellect wavers there is choice.
I choose, I choose, I choose. I choose this.