Cross roads

And again here we go we’re standing on the roundabout and there’s so much cloth to choose from to sew together and all of it will make or break the tapestry which paves the roads going east west and north and south and that way and which way.

a lifetime should be enough time, don’t you think? To do the hard thing to do the right thing, but you can make a decision a hundred times and never feel happy with it, because at every step someone gets hurt. it doesn’t matter who is worthy and who isn’t, what matters is that a person is a person is a person, and there’s no amount of conscience smoothing that can wipe embroidery clean like a time smoothed stone.

we are delicate, life is too short and too long and every instant feels eternal, like tomorrow might never come. Sometimes I wonder if time is longer for some people. Do seconds feel like decades to the butterfly? I always feel like time is so extended, that the past is this rich artefact we carry as the make up of our hearts. the future always comes, but it’s the waiting that cuts us up. What choice is right, what stop makes sense, and who will hold us when it’s done?

there’s always some sense of isolation I think, unless you’re religious or a fascist of some sort. Because every choice separates you from the person who didn’t make it. When we grow up we stop having conversations. We just go for consequences, their sharp edges and bated breath. I am waiting I am waiting I am waiting for the right thing to be clearer than it already is, like God could spell it out in the sky for me, sharper than the vicious and vindictive words of villains, now disappeared into the ethos but etched across my brain. What do I do? how do I protect everyone and myself included? and how ill will I feel in decades to come if I chose myself above it all?