yesterday, two paraphrased sentences from two conversations, twelve hours apart:

—you seem to have been able to move around, on from relationships—

—so, i guess i’ll see you in another five or ten years?—

i’ve been thinking about paths chosen, forks in roads. the tenacity of an undercurrent. idealism is a dangerous hill, because one stumble begins a long and perilous fall. in my case, i did not so much fall down a hill as jump off a ledge.

at one point and time, i had an understanding of what i wanted from this life—once circumstances began to chip away at that, i spent decades breaking everything in sight. i’ve always been an all-or-nothing type. now there are many shards of space spread across time, and i really don’t know what to make of them anymore.