That's the crazy part...

I spend so much time thinking about regret. Imagining the outcome of different paths, trying to figure out where they would lead. So much mental capacity deciphering my own thought spiral and its accompanying conviction that there is a perfect, placid life, my own alternate existence, pristine and simple, existing in a neighboring reality in which certain turns in the road were never set upon. But it isn't true, is it? Any of it. I knew that. I had learned it. But it is an irresistible fantasy, if only because it implies I have some control over my own fate.

Layers I can’t unfold...

Only one way to go from here...

He is the interpretation of the prophet. He is the artist in the coffin. He is the brave flag stained with blood. He is the wounds overcome. He is the dream refusing to sleep. He is the dance that swings till dawn. He is the grass on the greener lawn. He is the respectful neighbour and the graceful man. He is the encouraging smile and the helping hand. He is the straight back and the lifted chin. He is the tender heart and the will to win. He is the the rainbow in rain. He is the shoulder to lean onto. He is life running away from death, and tripping every step in between. 

I'm wondering; what is the most profound difference between between us, between you and me? Between the people that seem to skate through life, and those that barely float above its surface? I wish I could have full access to my ancestral memories. For them to come at me in the full glare of awareness and not like whispers from my blind side. Some call it instinct or fate. The memories apply leverages to each of us - on what we think and what we do. Am I immune to such influences? I stand here and tell you: yet it moves. And that which moves can exert its force in ways no other power ever before dared stem. I am here to dare this.