The day is long as it is wide,
But if you measure it with your finger,
It’ll only be ‘this’ long.
Not quite long enough,
But enough to point to that which you desire.
I want that.
But not that.
And so, I sit in quiet contemplation
Of a life yet still waiting to be lived,
In fear that if I point to the wrong thing,
My life may be forfeit.
I scratch my head with my extended finger,
The finger that would rule an immeasurable future,
And consider the implications of its judgement.
The fingernail against my scalp feels good,
Relieving the itch of confusion that clouds my mind,
Except the unknown is not a physical sensation,
So the relief is brief and remains untethered,
Unclassified and troublesome.
Too many possibilities.
Too many potential outcomes –
Though I only want one,
To get through this day and the next,
And the one after that.