To each life there are chapters. Some places and characters stay the same and carry on into the next chapter, some do not. New characters enter and are introduced. Many are nameless extras that fill in your background; some will have substantial leading rolls. So it goes until the ink and paper run out.
For me, there is an intense desire to wrap those chapters into neat little packages with somber black paper, label the content and pack it away for later exploration in hopes of finding the intent. It’s like a life in words, broken up by parenthesis leaving me to wonder what makes up the main text. I still haven’t figured out my own plot; there’s too much digression to make heads or tails of it. I let life sweep me along its’ current just hoping for serendipity.
There are regrets and wisdoms, both earned and imposed. Joys and sorrows. I do not wish to scrub the stains. Let them set. Let them keep their place on the once clean white linen of inexperience. We are all, after all, a product of wear and tear. We each bear the marks: places smooth as creek pebbles and places as jagged and dangerous as broken glass. What makes you you? I do not know. I only know what makes me me. They are simple and unobtrusive. They are what I do:
I know. I fade. I want. I wake. I refuse. I remember. I repeat. I roam. I ruin. I run. I rot. I recall. I wait. I disappear. I rage. I forget. I sleep. I replace. I desire. I cringe. I lack. I crave. I mope. I miss. I write. I hide. I regret. I see. I love. I went. I plead. I ache. I feel. I listen. I know.
They seem selfish, do they not? Those little phrases where the word “I” sits as a queen on a thrown before a jester of unprovoked action. No adjectives or adverbs to flesh their meager frames. They are not selfish, I assure you. No matter the companion, it is only the “I” that remains. There are no objects, direct or indirect, to point a blaming finger. No subordinating conjunctions to offer in my defense. In the end, it is only I, only me on this page. It is that way with everyone. Yes, even you. Your life is made up of these sets, as individual and unique as you. I guess I’m writing this in an attempt to show that although the “I” stands alone (much like the cheese), the verb is not a pre-arranged marriage; it is a choice and each one of us holds the pen. What will you choose to do? How will your pair your “I” this year? This day? This moment?
I believe the in the responsibility and power of “I.” Although it’s probably cliche, these other two words fit so well I thought I’d let them wrap it up… but without the black paper: carpe diem.
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