You're late to the research center, realizing your mistake when you're already halfway there and arriving on the upper Upper East Side sweating, jittery. They strap you into a tube and put on a nature documentary. You wonder if you chose the wrong profession, if you should have focused on swimming with otters, if you should have followed the path on which you were born. Shoulda woulda coulda. Every path is a hundred others left behind.
You wonder if this is your midlife crisis
or if it's just May tickling your senses.
The machine makes loud noises and you don't know how long you've been in there. Come out dizzy, reborn. Sail down Lexington Avenue until you land at the Monday bar, buzzing on a Thursday, this is not your day in the custody agreement. Someone has ordered pizza. You love New York so much you wonder how your heart hasn't burst already.
Realize it already has, a hundred times over,
and somehow still beats after all these years.
This lesson is your greatest gift.
You chose a path decades ago, tried leaving it time and again, always found your way back through the thicket. Some paths follow you in the woods.
It is May now, you believe in a future now, you remember what it is to long for something again. Now is not the time to saunter, now is the time to run.
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