At the beginning you asked me to choose, and you said “you are good at this and at that, but you must choose”. And I did. You said I wouldn’t regret.
After 5 years and a motorbike accident, you said I should choose again, and you said “you are good with the new stuff and you are good with the old stuff. But you must choose”. And I did. You said I wouldn’t regret.
And two years and couple of aurora borealis sightings later, you said I should choose once again. You just would not let me be. You said “you can go here and you can go there and you can go there, but you must choose”. And I did. And you said I wouldn’t regret.
And now, 8 years, 202 pages, 11 propositions and 1.2 performances further, you say I can’t choose. Not now. And maybe not ever. That you have predecided for me. And that you were just teasing me before, and you knew I would regret. Because you brought us closer in this way. So close that I couldn’t see I couldn’t choose anymore. And all I see is drifting from the loved ones that also chose and can’t choose anymore.
But we shall prevail. Or maybe just not quite.
In any case, the learning is that once the shit hits the fan, it’s good to have your face covered. Many claim you should direct this effort to your ass, but I really doubt it. Your rear is prone to all sorts of abuses during your career that makes it futile to protect it. Actually, it seems that it is more of a when and how much, which is the real global driving forces of Life, Universe and Everything. And while your bum might facilitate great advancement, it is your face (provided you cover it up) that will allow you to keep on breathing -thus surviving- through the toughest of all. Unless, nuclear shit hits the fan, but that’s a whole different story.