Caravellum

I stand on a bridge called Opportunity, which joins the lands of Been and To-Be. Suspended over the murky waters of the sea, the bridge carries me rather uncertainly. For next to me, several more bridges can be seen, each twisting in the mists to a different destiny.

On one, the half-shape of a man I had once been. Suit tailored and well-dressed, smile and hairstyle well-pressed. I catch another spectre walk by, wrapped in an apron and red-eyed, past which a third illusion does fly, atop a heron through the sky. But each figure remains half-realised as if permanently on standby, and it takes me time to see why. They are stuck in half till I dignify one path with its aftermath.

I scan the horizon, prising open my eyes against the climbing sun called Timing. Far beyond my vision go the bridges of decision, each one provisioned with the half-shape of one me. Affronted by this vista, I confess to no direction, stressed with no affection for the path on I wish to be. So I stick with no motion until by some measure, I note with some pleasure, the number of bridges does tremor, and they no longer seem to go on forever.

So I warm my hands in my pockets and wait for the clarity, through the form of an enforced reduction in parity, until one day I shall face the singularity of the bridge left for me. While somewhat pathetic, apathy is magnetic when faced with the frenetic tides of Opportunity, where one simply can’t compare all the things one could be.