You go chasing a dream that can never be and lose sense of the realities that tether you to the very safety net you scramble for. You know the inappropriateness of your pursuits, and the heart is so many chambers, they never told you which part of it to follow… the road less taken was always the one the moral part of your head or heart or whatever that be is fine with…this base immoral fragile existence will not last forever you know that, but it will last long enough for you to shatter faith, to live a seasoned lifetime of guilt, and to hold yourself in perpetual contempt. The road less taken could be anything. It could be this guilt-ridden road. That the majority fears to tread… and you say this, despite the echoes in your head of – “fools rush in where angels fear to tread."
Many of us live our lives like there is no tomorrow. Many of us live it knowing there is one, and we are answerable for what we make of it. Some of us have the comfort of forgetting. The luxury of remembering just what they want to, and consigning the rest of it to the domain of fiction, the oblivion of non-existence. Reducing truth to the version that they choose to believe in. The eternal sunshine of the spotless mind.
But somewhere on a lonely stretch, with no music pounding in your ears (maybe you always knew why it had to be so loud), or little yellow flowers on either side to distract you, or pending chore occupying your mind space, somewhere in between the silence and its deafening echo, maybe you would acknowledge, for a split second, if not more, of what really happened. Not what you choose to believe happened, nor what they thought happened. Just the fact of the matter, as they like to put it. That wasn’t a version. Comfortable or otherwise. Comforting or otherwise.
You can never avoid the truth, but you can avoid those who remind you of it. You can look away. Ignore. Pretend they don’t exist. For in the absence of witness, maybe truth will disintegrate, or in any case would be easier to dismiss. In the denunciation will be the freedom to choose belief, and circumstances, to draw up the canvas of memory with the colors you like. And then, there will always be more important things to do. More that demands, and perhaps would deserve your time, your attention, or even that split second glance. As yours lingers for just a second longer, you find yourself, yet again, on the verge of losing a grip that is so important to be held, and find yourself saved, if at all, by their decided denial of the fact of your existence. There is hope. In this anonymity. In this invisibility. In the knowledge of truth. Of both versions, theirs and yours.
And in the end, it never happened, they would say. Or perhaps, more appropriately, that nothing happened. The eyes might betray but in words, and intent, they will find you in agreement, with whatever is said. It will cease to matter perhaps, with some effort. Maybe more. Over time. In the course of things. With the repeated denial of your existence. With the benign and eager acknowledgment of other, new ones. Life will, slowly, go back to the way it was, in some ways. But only some. The losses will hurt. Was it worth it, you might ask yourself, for the hundredth time.
In the final analysis, its all the same.
