What a wonderful thing it is to not make a decision. Yes, if I were in charge, nothing would ever be accomplished—the world and every situation would remain forever-in-the-process. For what could be more enjoyable, I ask, than the nervous anxiety, the unpredictable excitement of a pending decision? And why should just this waiting-in-the-not-knowing not be extended indefinitely? For we know, do we not, that as soon as the verdict is handed down, the bell rung, the check ticked, we have lost in this moment an entire world of possibilities. What was once a wide-open space of wondrous who-knows-what becomes, in no time at all, a brute fact thanks to a decision. A decision narrows the world down to a tiny speck which all may then lay eyes upon, observe, discuss, debate, confirm, deny, deconstruct, and revisit until it makes one sick, just sick, so that one wished such a triviality never had to occur again. But people do not learn—they merely continue along on their merry way trouncing upon the caprice of others. And they look back as if to say, “Aren’t you coming along, you silly fool?” and they have such a look on their faces, the smugness of those so confident in their rectitude while at the same time pitying the poor sap who just can’t get it straight, just can’t look life in the eye. “But I shall be the one to bring him to the light! He’ll see!” they say. And they take you by the hand as though guiding a helpless child and positively beam with the righteousness of those who are blinded by the perceived goodness of the very act they are at that moment performing—so blinded, in fact, that they never bother to work out where it is they are heading, leading such an unfortunate, a cripple really—yes, so blinded by their very own good deed that they don’t notice how truly horrific their destination is going to be.

A decision creates reality—and this must happen!  Decisions must be made after all—for progress, for one to survive, and for reality to exist at all. But one does not have to like it. When I come to a decision, I am already galloping along to the next uncertainty, the next question, the next unknown, the previous one’s finality having sucked all interest, all life from it so that any discussion concerning it is right out for me and liable to put me into a most disagreeable humor—as when two people in proximity discuss the present weather they are experiencing as though a potential conversation exists there. Why not let’s move on to something with some meat we might sink our teeth into rather than gnaw pointlessly at already ancient bones? One may avoid or put off decisions for great lengths. I do so routinely. A quick decision uglies up the world by becoming realized too soon. There is beauty and grace in delaying a decision—it is not, as commonly thought, merely for the derelict. However, one may, at times, err on the other side and wait too long when, for instance, the decision to be made is a matter of small importance and one has, meanwhile, heightened the anticipation for the decision too greatly. It is a fine balance.

It is true, I tend to float along in this river life prone to the decisions of the world, occasionally smacking upon the rocks of others’ forthrightness, but otherwise gliding along unseen, forgotten. In fact, if I might be permitted to extend this bromide, I daresay underwater is the place for me! I dive deep, and the world above fades away. The buzzing and humming and clattering and chattering cannot quite penetrate this liquid cushion enveloping me—even when crystal clear, this world has a fuzziness, a murkiness to it. I forget about applications and forced smiles and shoddy workmanship and best sellers. I drop to the bottom and grab a handful of sand. It is soft and when I let go, the water takes it back from my hand and it slowly drifts again to the floor. Ahead, I see a uniquely colored fish—burgundy, periwinkle, white, and black. How he looks at me looking at him! What a pair the two of us make—both hovering in the ghostly water just above the river floor. I realize how lucky, privileged even, I am for the world to introduce me to such a magnificent little fellow—for us to be able to share in this moment. The fish’s little fins wave ridiculously at his sides, but these tiniest of motions are what keep this little guy going. They make a significant difference to his existence. How similar my ridiculous flappings are! He must find me so odd right now, my having invaded his territory. But he appears to me to be quite calm—I might even say he is enjoying this moment as much as I for all its heavy strangeness. And I am equally struck with melancholy that nobody else shall be a part of this—this fish and I alone will know this one true moment, and that is sad beyond words—even beyond feelings in the way in which one will feel sad about something and then the brain kicks in as well, realizing how sad the situation is, and the sadness thereby grows. And yet, here you are, still reading—which means that you know perfectly well what I mean by such a phrase as “sad beyond words”—a peculiar phrase which performs the very feat it claims to be impossible—you, as well as I, know what it is to feel sadness, and you know what it is like to have difficulty expressing that sadness in words—and so, you know just as well as I do what I mean in this instance with the fish—for you are there as much as I—when I say that it is “sad beyond words.” And perhaps you also know what I meant back there with “sad beyond feelings.” If you do, please let me know what I meant because despite my own explanation it sounds rather nonsensical to me though certainly not any more nonsensical than “sad beyond words” or “transfinite numbers” so I’m sure we can agree upon something. But just listen to me ramble as though you were here before me! That’s nonsensical, and you will probably never exist anyway so I might just as well talk about myself some more:

I allow myself to be forgotten, prefer to be unnoticed—I abhor a big to-do for birthdays. Attention lavished upon me is in vain for I cannot pretend to know what to do with it. At best, I might have the wherewithal to subtly deflect it without harm being done to the giver—however, the giver often realizes at once my despondency and discomfort and begins to wonder why they did indeed waste any time on my being. It makes two then that has no answer. The fish, the beautifully striped one, needs no answer, and I love him for that. However, my dolor for my innumerable lackings remains—as a floater, certain life experiences are, for me, relegated to the realm of vicarious fantasy. Not the least of these includes an untamed moment in which I place a well-timed kiss of potent ardency on one beloved and in which an understanding takes place—an understanding not unlike that between myself and the fish. But, whenever I gasp for air, I receive only the celestial rush of water into my lungs.