Paradox

Patiently waiting to arrive at a life that is mine.
Like Plath’s Fig tree of possible lives.
I want to exhaust all of mine.
Leaving nothing to regret.

The paradox of the only constant in life being change.
If the only progress made was constant adaptation.
How much of life is playing it safe or in survival mode?

How many miles have I driven on familiar roads,
knowing where they’ll lead.
Maybe getting lost is the journey.
Am I even brave enough to get lost?

I don’t know how many hours of my life
I’ve spent doom-scrolling as a passenger in someone else’s life.

The voyeuristic charade of second hand experiences
of someone else’s daily existential dread.

I want to feel alive again,
like there’s more than just getting by
The paradox of their being more to life than being alive.