Gearshift

When laughter blasts out from the Tomorrows
my heart swells, becomes large, and I know this is right.
My hands work and my head races,
speeding with the ideas for shedding light on the many things on the List.
Trying to swerve to avoid the familiarity of the past,
I lapse into what is comfortable,
“An hour and ten minutes of stand-up comedy.”
We laugh until our sides hurt, and when I leave,
I wonder how much they have gleaned.

Because these Tomorrows are our responsibility.

The fear, the slow-motion fear, swells deep in me,
and I drag my steps. The rumble of the Tomorrows,
involved in their worlds and ideas, is a Stop sign.
Waiting at the lights, I silently hum to myself,
a low, ceaseless drone of reassurance.
Tomorrow, things will run smoothly and
the established regulations will be clear.
These tickets of fear, of hesitation and of doubt will not be issued
when life is flowing smoothly once again.

Because these Tomorrows are their own.

But a chance meeting on the road to Research and Preparation
introduces doubt, which grows, festers and converges
on the regions of the mind which are most congested.
This meeting, the beginning of roads not visible at this distance,
is terrifying in its implications. What ifs and buts abound and I hesitate.
The meter runs, and a decision made to wait.
Because leaving now would be irresponsible, and childish.
Because I know, still, that the choice is great, and the load heavy
for too many reasons. So I wait, sometimes patiently, sometimes not.

Because these Tomorrows may be my future?

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