In the culmination of it all, of years of holding on, of years of anguish, of years of trying, I learned my problem wasn’t that I couldn’t choose. It was that I didn’t want to choose. I wanted all of myself, in all ways, at all times.
It was as if I lived two, three different lives. As if I was changing my entire self repeatedly within a span of twenty-four hours, with each side trying to say, “this is the true me”, just as the other took hold and denied me the opportunity to be at peace, at ease. Perhaps, that is why I was so perpetually exhausted.
I wanted to spend all my days doing nothing but writing and living the slowest imaginable life, but I also craved a sort of tangible contribution to the world around me because I understood it. I understood the great human collaboration. I was also privy to artistic solitude.
I wanted to love someone with all my heart and also, love no one else but myself. I wanted everyone to be with me, and I wanted all of them to leave me alone.
On the outside, my indecisiveness was shrouded by a surety that paralleled none other, my conflicts were portrayed as unmatched clarity, and the schism within me slowly became an epitome of balance. On the inside, I was falling apart as all sides of me grew in different directions with unimaginable pace.
Slowly, however, the limits of it all were making themselves all the more visible. This conflict wasn’t one of whim or fantasy either. I continually acted upon all sides. As everyone I met kept telling me I was doing something right, for anyone could find camaraderie with some side of me, I kept asking myself: who am I?
And in the culmination of all things, after everything had fallen apart, I learned, I was all sides of me, equally. Perhaps, it was a unique edge. Maybe, it would be why I’d lose myself eventually.
The bottom line was, I didn’t want to choose anymore. I wasn’t even inclined on trying. I was going for everything and everyone I could possibly be, or nothing at all.