It is the season of indecision, of futures hanging on the fragile balance of
what needs to be done versus what wants to be done versus what society thinks I should be getting the fuck done
But am stuck in different coloured fingernails and cigarettes that smell of something between the lines of
driving along an empty highway with a rolled joint in between his fingers, listening to Portishead and Alanis.
And wide-eyed in wonder at how incredibly deceivingly reassuring youth is, especially wasted ones,
when it comes to romance and adventure and experiences worthy of growth, and self-deprecation.
Because in comparison to the others who have momentarily existed in my life, the lawyer and the professor
and the business consultant who wore ties and suits and seemed so confident and sure of what they wanted in their public lives,
except for when they’re sitting alone in front of their flat-screen televisions, in Toronto condos empty except for generic art with no meaning, and book shelves full of business and self-help books, lacking literature —
His story meant nothing, amounted to nothing, so severely lacking in conclusion, that it barely registers as a narrative —
another beginning, without an end.
And I wonder what I could have meant, even if it’s an aside, a subplot in the momentum of their lives, the one that they tell to their
sons – back in the day when they explored – when they wondered what the meaning was behind life beyond careers and aspirations,
their coming of age story – the age of sexual exploration – where for a day they encountered an Asian girl who was just that –
an Asian girl they knew absolutely nothing about, not even a heritage, a culture nor an identity –
just an Asian girl passing through, a tiny bump that made him realize what he truly wanted out of a female, a heroine,
qualities that the other subplots didn’t quite carry in the great epic of how he met your mother.
Because honey, I wanted you, the road I didn’t take, the one I was too afraid to leave my old life for,
a chance I didn’t take, and an ending I can forever keep with me —
as an aside, a subplot, a tiny bump in the great, grand sum of all my lives combined,
because in the end, we can only be ourselves, everything else is desperate, imagined