Four
keys. One opens up my past. One reveals my future. One shows me everything I’ve
ever done wrong. One opens the door to escape and forget everything.
I
choose.
1
is what I’ve always done. 2 I am too afraid of. 3 I already know. 4 is the easy
way out.
There
has to be another key.
There
isn’t.
1
I stay where I am. 2 I risk losing it all. 3 will teach me nothing. 4 I learn
nothing.
There
has to be another key.
There
isn’t.
1
will keep me haunted. 2 will keep me enslaved. 3 will shatter every thread of
my already bare soul. 4 will keep me blind.
There
must be another key.
There
isn’t.
1
is limbo. 2 is a supernova. 3 is a wormhole. 4 is nothingness.
There
has to be another key.
There
isn’t.
I
throw away 3 and 4.
There
isn’t.
I
take 1 and 2 in my hands and feel their shape slowly. Two silver keys, simple,
elegant, unembroidered, unnumbered, uncut. They are exactly the same, except
for their weight. One of them pushes my skin a little harder and feels more raw
inside my hand. Like its edges have been dragged through concrete.
1
was me. 2 isn’t me yet. And I am standing in the middle.
1
holds my choices. 2 hides my intent. And I, am standing in the middle, of
everything that will ever be me.
1
is what I’ve learned. 2 is all I’ve yet to discover. And I am standing in the
middle, knowledgeable and ignorant.
1
is lies and truths and memories of good intentions and bad decisions. 2 is an
effervescent wish in a game of chess I’m playing against myself.
Always
choose black.
So
I open my hands. I close them on each other. Fuse the keys. Close my eyes. Take
a breath.
There has always been another key.
There has always been another key.