I forgot my camera. My moleskine. My pajamas.
I walked through the doorway and slung a string of expletives against the back wall. They shattered and crashed. Landed among the piles of life I suddenly, and not so suddenly, wanted to shred. Midway through a sigh, I returned to my day-long chant, "Universe, give me a sign. Please, a sign." I finished the sigh still not sure I believed in signs. I looked around and over my shoulder, at the anger and frustration piled and dripping down the back wall, like raw eggs slammed and cracked and dripping yolks on pristine white paint. What more of a sign did I want?
I decided not to decide. Too soon, too risky, too scary. But. I arrived with questions. Questions they couldn't answer. So I began to walk. Too hard and too fast, I ticked off blocks, climbed stairs, flashed smiles I could never stand behind, wrote down names and addresses, covered 80 city blocks; my feet slamming the ground. You must want this, I noted as though I could make an objective observation.
I arrived as the sun set. I turned the corner to a forgotten building, suddenly remembered and familiar. I was 16. I had already decided this. Declared this. Expected this. Entirely different yet the same. This building entirely different yet the same. It washed over me quickly: here's my sign. Undeniable. My feet slowed.
I'll look back and see them arriving all at once: the sign I wasn't sure I believed in, the answers, and the decision. Life is too short to decide not to decide, I finally acknowledged. And I made the decision I should have made the moment I realized I had forgotten my camera, my moleskine, my pajamas. Myself.