Today I sat with a friend and we talked about death and choices and how life can be shit.
We are helpless in the face of death, whether close to us, or detached. We do not cope well with it, we have not the words to comfort nor the capacity for true empathy. Everything becomes an inadequate platitude, a gesture bereft of anything but awkward meaning and sympathy. And we are more often than not horribly aware of that. And yet we blunder on.
I spoke to TB, a veritable flow of texts after so long a silence, and she questioned her choices, the veracity and appropriateness of them. Hindsight has its own peculiar lens, tainted by time, tinted by the present. It distorts the reality of those decisions, skews the weight of their consequences. It also reveals truths, shedding the illusion of the moment under the light of gained experience. Do we ever make the right choices? We make wrong ones, our self-awareness the limitation of that knowledge. Everything else is a hodgepodge of happenstance and circumstance, bedfellows of uncertainty.
We do the best that we can, casting the knucklebones with the surety of perceived wisdom. Some are inconsequential. Some are less so. Some choices are utterly fundamental in their life-changing consequences, and for those there are no refunds.