Sleepwalking

"..I can't turn this around,

I keep running into walls that I can't break down.."

Dear lonely isle,

Let the sleepless nights begin.

Much as I should be in bed by now, and fast asleep, I'm not.

Much as my body is very tired, my brain seems to have found the strength to go on.

Much as I would hope for a good night's sleep, I believe that tonight is not that night.

Do you believe in destiny?

I'll always believe that we make our own destiny.

That even though something may be written in the stars, its up to us to pick up the pen.

And also up to us to continue following the writ to the letter.

I'll always believe that we fight for what we have today, here and now.

Because if there is something such as a destiny, and fate, that dictates the lives of men, I'd probably convert to one of the numerous faiths we have in the world, and pray that my destiny will chart me a course close to the waters I hope to tread.

Because if truly we were always 'meant' for something, then perhaps there is no place left for hard work, and determination, and dedication, and honesty.

I think this would be the closest thing I have to a belief.

So what do you do, when life yet again, presents you with a choice?

When it doth again, places before your plate, two selections?

When it yet again, shows you a place in the woods where two paths diverge?

Two roads from which there is no reverse or return.

Maybe they lead up to the same path, maybe they lead down to entirely different circumstances.

You don't know. You can't know.

There's too many 'if's.

And too little 'how's.

Plenty of 'what's.

And too few 'why's.

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,

And sorry I could not travel both

And be one traveler, long I stood

And looked down one as far as I could

To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair

And having perhaps the better claim,

Because it was grassy and wanted wear;

Though as for that, the passing there

Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay

In leaves no step had trodden black.

Robert Frost made his choice.

Somehow, I'm going to have to make mine.

And I have no idea how.

All this thinking cannot be good, if nothing comes out of it.

I've taken out all my cards, even the ones I hid in my sleeve, in my pocket, and down my collar, and laid them out on the table.

Perhaps right now its still a rather private table, but nonetheless, I'm being honest.

And I've taken a good look at all of them, and tried to stare them down.

But yet, like a poor tarot reader, I still can't make sense of what I see.

I stare and I look, and I try sorting them into different piles.

I tried flipping some over, to uncomplicate the picture.

And still I've arrived at naught.

I know what I want. But what I want is wrong.

Is it?

Despite everything, I feel like I'm back where I started months ago.

Somehow, even though I've traveled, I haven't progressed.

I realize that this is probably an easy decision to make, but I'm still hesitating at the crossroads.

Until now, you're still such a sore loser.

You're afraid to take another step, for fear of what you might lose.

Coward.

Love, Joyce.