on truth

Stretched white milk met with golden brown crema, sharp and clean, the one cutting the other with such clear distinction, a lovely rosetta forming on the surface.  I brought my cortado to the table, where it sits now, half drank.  Ten, maybe twelve minutes have passed since it was made, and now the surface of my drink is muddied, marbled as an oily swamp.

Every time I lift it to my lips, the picture fades more.

Truth seems to be fluid, like espresso and milk. My truth does, anyway.  A crossroads has been racing toward me, a time for decision and turns.  

To my left, a leap.  Take a risky risk, make a chancy choice.  Jump with eyes closed into a freezing lake of possibility - or maybe, ruin.  This would make for a wild story to tell the grandchildren one day.  “When I was twenty-five, I quit my job with not a prospect in sight, and my whole world changed…”

To my right, patience.  Stay physically put, but shift my outlook and, maybe, my reality. Financial responsibility, all that shit, but also learn to weather the dull seasons with a happy and adventurous spirit.

Either choice would make a rip in me, somewhere.

To some, truth is black and white.  There are those who would, and have, advised the risk - flee the scene, run towards a dream.  Life is short, right?  Why not run from the thing you hate?  And conversely, there are those who have advised patience - slow your breathing and look around.  What can you learn? How can you carry happiness with you from this place to the next? Now, the crossroads is in my rear-view mirror, and I still can’t tell my left from right. 

I’m longing to see that bright-line and beautiful rosetta once more, but I’ve finished my drink, and now I’m not sure it was ever there at all.