Every decision has its price. I choose one thing; infinite potentials die And the mes… the mes that might have been, die with them. It terrifies me: all that me-murdering. What if I would have liked one of the dead mes better? How do I know which me to keep alive today? Sometimes, when I’m tired, I imagine turning myself into a slug and finding a nice rock to live under for the next few thousand years. Part of me wants to say ‘until I figure it out,’ but, as a slug, I’d never figure it out. But maybe I’d forget. Sometimes, forgetting seems nice. But then I look at the actual examples of it and I remember why I don’t want to forget. I remember that remembering is a prison: a prison that holds me safely in my body, safely to the earth so I don’t float away. Remembering is a gravity. I have mixed feelings about gravity, too. I have mixed feelings.
On the day in question, I was sitting on the beach when I saw these twiggy things come… well, I can’t really say running. They were more or less lurching toward me, arms flailing. I remember thinking they were cute, though I can’t say why I thought so. I used to like strawberry ice cream until one day in central park when I spent most of my afternoon puking in the bushes. Not that they made me vomit; they did not. But my feelings about both them and strawberry ice cream are now much more complicated than ‘cute.’ My feelings about everything are much more complicated than ‘cute.’
I felt for them. They kept heaving themselves right and left with abandon, slamming into each other, as if they had no idea which way to go. I wish I understood at that point that none of us really know which way to go, but, then, I thought I knew. Maybe I did now. I can’t say as I remember. I can’t say as I want to remember.
It hurts. My brain hurts: all the time, like it’s too hot in my head and everything’s melting. I can’t remember when it was cool and clear, but I can remember that it was… or at least I thought it was… which might be the same thing.
They seemed so lost. I picked the first one up and stroked its back. It calmed, relaxing in my hand; I calmed with it. Suddenly, without warning or willingness, I loved it. I picked up the other and cupped them gently, I focused on infusing them with confidence, decision making, and what we called poetry: the magical power of beauty and language. One cooed. The other cleared its throat, and said hello. So much joy then! So much grief now. I didn’t know that the confidence, decision making and poetry were mine: emphasis on were.
In that moment, there was a genocide of authoritative, eloquent, mes. I imagine them endlessly strewn across the beach in all directions, the tide slowly dragging them into the One Sea. I tell myself they don’t know. I hope it’s true.
I keep going back to that beach, in my imagination. Most of the potential mes are gone now, but three remain. One wears a golden arm band. I think I hope it is from my brother. I think i hope, one day, it will work; I will be resurrected. I think I hope one day I will know what I think, what I hope.
For now, only they do.