Ice

I feel as though I live caught between different worlds, as though each aspect of my personality has to be consciously chosen. “I didn’t choose what I am.”

I could be, I could be, I could be.

I did choose. We always have to choose. Some times, I choose poorly. Maybe I chose to be harsh, and serious, and cold. I don’t remember the act of choosing, but I do remember a time before it. I remember being a free spirit, full of vivacity, even precocious; maybe that’s just childhood, though.

I regret many of my choices. I have chosen a path that cannot be exchanged; I have set priorities that can no longer be denied. I have given things up for them, things that most people would consider a part of youth by definition. Emotion is suppressed. Only certain interests are cultivated. Life is put on hold.

When will I live? When can I put down these responsibilities, and just be the me that I feel at these quiet moments of solitude? If I could turn back time seven years, I would laugh more, I would cry more, I would live more. Maybe I can choose to take some of it back; maybe I can reverse something.

Maybe it will all be worth it some day.