• If someone told someone they only had 100 days to live, how would they respond? Would they blow everything for a few good times and laughs? Would they act saintly giving all their possessions and time to those in greater need? Or would they act normal, figuring they had lived a good life, and continue to live their time out regularly until the 100th day comes, accepting the inevitable?

    I can't decide.
    For myself that is, I know I'm too filled with anxiety and indecision to choose a straight path. I'm too hard on myself, I knew I've had problems with pessimism. But life is never a straight path is it, sometimes curvy, light, dark, twisted, jagged.. as unique as the human race. Paths that all wind up in each other, all tangled, some tied up in many, but most of them just see on their own paths, and just that. The paths are fascinating, some winding off into oblivion, some two paths, living side by side, sometimes splitting but always managing to find a way back to each other, and others larger and consuming smaller ones, plowing through, splintering, crippling, demolishing those weak and foolish enough to be in it's way.

    I get distracted easily, and I'll find myself staring out into that gargantuan mess of paths. It's not only my path I see, my family and parts of close friend's paths will come into view pretty often. We always see each other, my family and I on our paths, but words are not always spoken. It seems that even if our paths are quite far apart, I can always see over hundreds of others just to glimpse at my families'.

    My current path is pretty straight, sometimes curvy, though I hit a lot of brick walls. I beat at them, beating until my head is throbbing with pain, until my body is covered with bruises, until my hands are covered with abrasions and blood, only to find myself filled with agony, emotional and physically worn out, and I barely lean against the wall for some sense of relief, to have it fall down on its own. So I continue walking along my path. I can't really see too far of what's ahead of me, and only bits and pieces of the path I've left behind. There's too much fog. My sky has been cloudy as long as I can remember. Not quite white or black, but a mix, with playful clouds tumbling about the sky, blocking my sunlight. Here and there I catch rays of sun, but more than half the time I feel they are just peeking through to view my progress. The sun is nice, I fool myself into believing some clouds are good. I don't know if I could handle all sun all the time. I'd be drowning in a pool of obnoxious. However.... I'm fortunate to have stayed out of the dark. I've lost sight of my path a few times, to have it re-appear after some looking, other times I loose it because my sight is shrouded with emotion. Sure love may seem like a great feeling in fairy tales. But if it consumes your eyes, it is as deadly as rage, especially love's close relative lust. It's like playing with fire.