“Choose!" Has became the most dreaded phhrase for me to decipher lately.
Blueberry crush OR Choco-freaking-Lava, Science OR Arts, Scooty OR car, Rules OR freedom, Candy floss OR Bubblegum, Cap or Hoodie, DragonBallZ OR Star Wars, Library or Canteen, Political Science OR English major, College OR Course, Black OR Jet Black, Philosophy OR economics, Movie OR book, Burger or Resolution, Smile OR Pout, Anarchism OR Democracy, Asexual OR Aromantic, Yellow OR Navy Blue, Chain OR Button-down, Instagram OR Medium, Photograph OR long-ass-write-up, Liberalism OR Marxism, Lesbian Feminism OR Racist Feminism. This side of the river OR that.
Even when we are taught that choices are privileges, that choices are a liberty that is funded by freedom, that choices help us construct, to construct something that has been raw into something that is functional, something lucrative; choice becomes a constriction. A coercion. To choose. To answer what is being questioned. To answer what is to be answered. To make the RIGHT choice. Heck, we are even taught, quite a few times, what is that right choice.
A choice of building a wall because we were given bricks. Or a choice to build more than a wall if we are given bricks. Or a suffocating expectation of being divergent enough to build something not just a wall everytime we are given the same bricks.
We are not taught, however, that Choice sometimes takes away our freedom of choice. That a Choice compels us to settle. NOT FLOAT, never float they would say. Settle with your choice. Make a home out of it. A home that would home your choice and yourself in the same. That you don’t have to wander, because if you are roving about, then you didn’t make that choice your choice. That we have to be sure of what we are about to do, before we do. That we are not delirious in our understanding of what will come with the choice.
We are not taught that we can easily cross-over, from one side of the river to another, anytime we feel like. That we can travel even if we own a home. That even if we travel, we will come back home. That a home is still a home if its inhabitants are not in there. That a home is only home if its inhabitants want to be in there.
Other times, it is inherent in the understanding of the whole concept of Choice that it is going to define us. Haunt us. Circumscribe us such that we have to refrain from touching anything that falls out of the domain you chose. With each step we take up our shady castle stairs, the huge door is clasping back shut, to interlace itself back with the walls that felt cold in their essence on its absence. That if we like the view outside the window high-up the castle room, we can touch it with our eyes merely and never with our hands. We can embrace the view outside, down below, only by stepping out, by falling down. A fall so bad that we will finally be able to touch it with our hands but not with our eyes then. So its better we choose wisely. Because it is also assumed that we won’t be offered the same choice twice.
But sometimes, choice comes like a midsummer night’s dream. Poetic. Relatable. Unbound, without a cover. Subtle that our whole life be changed without us having a clue. A leaf that you picked on your own, out of a whole messy bunch of crinkles, because of reasons you thought are savory. Because you think it can live more than its ascribed for. Because you think you can make it live. Because you think you will make it live, in yourself, in your way. A choice that will live with you. A choice that you will want to live with.