Doors open and close all around me. I hesitate. You're told to always act with utmost practicality, otherwise you'll end up with banged knees, chipped teeth, debt the size of Idaho.
I read somewhere that a happy disposition does not correlate to longevity; optimism promotes risky decisions. But I prefer a short intense life than a long careful lukewarm existence. I want to be, at the end of mine, mad for more, mad for every poem and every kiss and every dream I'll never have again.
So here it is again: another difficult choice, guided not by practicality, but by rain, stars, scribbled dreams, the cost of a plane trip across the great pond. I leave alone, to return to him renewed.