This world is for the intentional.
It’s the kind of place where I should thrive. I should rule.
I’ve considered every step, of every day.
I lay in bed every morning, thinking about how I’ll eventually get out. The actions I’ll take. How my muscles will shift. Setting my toes on the cold floor just so.
On my commute, I consider my posture, my demeanor, my expression. Upright. Aloof. Vacant.
Deliberate is my middle name!
But in this world, this world for the intentional, I am consumed and frozen in fear by the potential.
There are too many possible roads to deliberate, too many conceivable truths behind the actions of others.
For in this world, where everything is intentional, planned, goal-oriented
that too must mean pain (caused and afflicted) Is intentional.
Or maybe not.
Maybe this, this pain causing action, is involuntary. The one time we can’t help but be authentic. The worst time. The most inconvenient time.
The not knowing is the most excruciating circumstance of living in this world.
And so I remain in continuous suspension between this step and the next
Unaware of where the next land mine will be, for it has yet to be set.