I sometimes have conversations with my ideal self.
"We live very different lives, you and I," I say, trying hard to keep the false drama from coloring my words.
He ignores me. Hunched over the keyboard, he stares into the illuminated screen like a mage studying the fog, then continues typing. He is lost in his story and I resent him for it. He has no time for me, for lost souls with mouths full of excuses and hearts full of uncertainty.
"I suppose it doesn't matter," I say to no one in particular.
Perhaps I should offer a correction. These interludes are not so much conversations as hollow soliloquies cast like spells into the discarnate air.
If he were to relent, to offer some breadcrumb of understanding, I might not feel so lost. But his commitment is unwavering, his dedication pure. When he faces an obstacle, he plunges on, undeterred. He has no time for me and those like me.
I talk. He works. I think. He works. I breathe. And still, he works.
It's one thing to know in every nook and cranny of my being that there are good reasons I am not accomplishing certain of life's critical pursuits. Being OK with it is another thing altogether.