You can’t pretend it isn’t exciting. The maybe, perhaps, but probably not. The moments, the edges, the sparring of thoughts and minds and intentions. What is said and what isn’t. Who you choose and who you don’t, the opportunities you throw yourself at and into, the scheming, the planning, the juggling, having the choice. It’s all potential, perhaps it’s all in your head, perhaps half of it is, perhaps you really can grasp it all. But either you do the sensible thing, steer well clear of the rocks, the eddies, the cliff edge, or you dive in and you take the risk and you know you’re going to get hurt and it’s going to be horrible half the time and everyone tells you not to do it but everyone knows you’re not listening and of course they’re all fully aware that when there are pieces for you to pick up, they’ll be holding back your hair as you down the whisky and retch your guts out, they’ll be there as you cry, you haven’t run out of lives yet, you’ve still got time to pick the pieces up again and patch it all back up again and then laugh as you throw it down again and maybe, just maybe, it won’t break this time, whatever it is, perhaps you won’t be the one that gets hurt at the end of the day. May you live in interesting times? Don’t tell me that half of us don’t spend half our lives looking for the interesting in the times that we’re in.
Then again, it’s exhausting. Maybe this time I’ll choose the responsible path, bank on the safe option, aim at contentment and happiness, rather than this vivid chimera, this who-knows-what. Perhaps it’s time for tea and cake, for eating my greens and darning socks, not for whisky and moonshine and moonlight and madness. Honestly, I would rather be a grown-up. Perhaps this is the last dance, last chance, and then it stops. I wouldn’t want to miss the last dance, except that my feet are tired.
Then again it’s entirely possible that I’m off in my own world again.