What if you wrote your life? What if you lined it all up before you were even a twinkle in your Daddy-O’s eye? You chose him. Your ma, too. Knowing if they’d stay or if they’d go, if you’d be the result of part-time lovers, or if they’d be a Sunday kind of love. (Oh, yeah, yeah, yeah.)
What if you picked the places you’d wind up; the one you were born in, the places others dragged you, and the ones you’d choose again yourself after you were ‘you’ enough to do so. The ones you vehemently disliked and still can’t shake, the ones whose beauty will haunt you forever, or perhaps the only one you’ve ever known, and you feel *shrugs* about.
What if you picked the people you’d be surrounded by? What if you chose people who didn’t get you, so you could be all the you-er in contrast? What if you chose souls to swing through and support you, just to leave so you could do it on your own, now believing that you could? What if you surrounded yourself by only those who love and understand you, ’cause fuck man, existing here is hard and lesson enough on its own.
What if you chose your body? From your fat ass to your dancer’s feet. Your thriving health, to all that ails you. The parts you love, the parts you think you wish you could change. What if you chose to be really, really, ridiculously good looking to learn about vanity – or deformed to learn about heart? Or either for both.
What if you chose your talents? What if you’re living a life pursuing a talent that’s an old friend developed over many lifetimes? (Like I suspect Bill Murray is up to.) What if you chose to be successful at a talent you’re rocking for the first time? (More of a Pauly Shore?)
What if you chose your “faults”? What if you knew that any perceived fault is just strength of character turned up too high or too low? That meekness is actually quiet moxie with a poor sound system? Or that obnoxiousness is just self-love who’s still got something to prove?
What if you chose all of these things and then said, fuck it, I’ve still got the pen? What if you designed your whole game and then made up a cheat code midway? What if you said, free will dude, I do what I want?
…What if you never knew you had the pen, and thought yourself a victim all along?
What if ol’ Willy S was right, and all the world is a stage? What if he was wrong and we aren’t merely players? What if we are also the playwrights? The masters of improve? The directors? And the muses, forever creating more creation whether we mean to or not?