Of all the places to drop me off with a wave and a smile, a distinct lack of directions, why here, why now? Was there something I was supposed to do? If so, I hope it was accomplished by somebody else, because I doubt I was the one to do it. Is there something I'm supposed to do yet? If so, will I have the chance or do I need to forge my own way?
Of all the times to drop me off, why here? A world free of pirate ships and privateers, where there are only a handful of kings and queens and the revolutions can no longer be romanticized, due to media coverage. Stark pictures of violence and blood. But also beautiful pictures of hope and the quest for freedom, signs in a language I can't understand.
Of all the places to drop me off, why here? I've been to Israel, I've been to London and Paris and Toronto. New York, San Francisco, Seattle, and Atlanta. So why here? Why did the ribbons of fate twist in the directions they did, across states and years and schools and companies?
From all the things I could have been, why am I what I am? Why am I a writer, not a mathematician or a scientist? Why do the numbers swirl like foreign shapes and make me tug my hair from my head, but words flow with the beauty and smoothness of a rippling river? Why does the sound of computer keys clicking away sound like a lullaby?
From all the things I could have been, why am I who I am? Why am I neither gay nor straight but a happy medium between the two, a sexuality often disregarded as a fantasy world, denial, or indecision? Why is there no one?
Why am I so painfully shy in any attempts to meet new people? Why is the thought of speaking so terrifying?
Why does my stomach so often feel like it's been ripped up the front with a long bladed knife and everything on the inside has spilled out? Why does it sometimes hurt so much that the only thing that can stop it is to tear at my skin with nails that I've often tried so hard to shorten and dull, but still, it goes on.
Why does dying come to mind too often? Far, far more often... Why do the only ones worth living for seem to be figments of my imagination?
Why is it so easy to plot the murder for a mystery novel?
Dear Time, why do we hate?
With love and distrust,
You know who.