Alternate Ends

Today, I was teased and asked about an alternate ending which friends speculate as more promising for me and my future.

This struck a chord because I’ve been thinking of alternate endings—scenarios that would have been my present had I dedicated myself to them in the past—for awhile now.

This isn’t something I do for fun. I’m forced into these kinds of musings by my very long, very slow commute to places. Through the subway or bus window, the backdrop shifts from cityscapes to suburban homes, from concrete floors to lush greens, and from my then and now…

Questions such as the following fill my head:

What if I got into Nursing instead of Linguistics? 
What if I didn’t choose to leave? 
What if I were less sensitive back then? 
What if I went for that guy?
What if I didn’t change or changed my mind?
What if I didn’t surrender or let go? 

And more questions come after…

Will I be more content with a practical profession?
Will I be less sad if I had more money?
Will I be okay if I pack up and leave with a one-way plane ticket back home? 
Will I like being unfeeling, uncaring, or being less attuned with my feelings? 
Where will we live? How many kids would we have by now and what are their names? 
Will we be—truly, genuinely—happy? 

Them questions eventually overwhelm me and I stop trying to answer them. I tuck them away for another train ride or walk home. But they’re always here confusing my mind, arresting my heart, and enticing my psyche with what could have beens and would have beens.

But today, when I got teased and asked about one particular alternate ending, every question got answered—all of them.

And here’s my answer: 

Alternate endings are not real ends. If they were, they won’t remain as mere questions, afterthoughts, daydreams or musings. They’d be here—right here, right now—because I would have chosen for them to be here, would have fought extremely hard to make sure they became my reality, would have been certain through and through. I will want them for myself and won’t let any other possible choice lessen my resolve. I decide and dictate my endings, regardless of how they start, by fighting for them with all I’ve got  every step of the way, along the middle, while faced with forks on the road.

So no, I won’t be happier with that man and I am not better off as a nurse. There is no other possibility under heaven that could make these alternate ends manifest. They are not acceptable, won’t come true, or will ever be true to me.

That’s my only and final answer to the question asked to me earlier. No more useless rumination of what ifs and what could have beens.

That’s that. I’m the possibility. I make my endings. 

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