A Possible Case of Analysis Paralysis

It was one of those nights where I’d finish boiling the greyish nuances,

Tracked the evaporation through each painful millilitre

And distilled it into two immiscible liquids.

What can I say?

I’ve lost patience in being my own devil’s advocate and bad habits die hard.

As I slouched against my desk,

The two options which begun as strangers, sized each other up across the room

Chin high, chest puffed with strong symptoms of Imaginary Lat Syndrome

A David Attenborough nature documentary in the making.

Option A: a gamble, a myriad of possibilities balanced on a knife’s edge,

Of conquering heights shrouded from dismissive eyes and

Promises of days equipped with teeth-grinding adversities and reluctant compromises.

In contrast, Option B: a safe haven, a sense of familiarity and comfort,

Comprising of time to reflect upon the past and leaving with wiser, sadder eyes

And being fixated by ruts to be timelessly stuck in.

Weighing the merits of either option proved futile,

Advantages and disadvantages somehow equal in amount and potency.

Just as valid,

Just as accurate.

Yet, something was amiss – the faint itch of forgetting your purpose,

Upon passing the doorway.

How could this be?

The method was infallible and holistic,

Guided by the critical lens of objectivity and needed only the direction.

Perhaps a coin flip with my trusty 10 cents would be the simplest way to choose

And so A was represented by heads, B with tails.

The face’s coldness seeped into my thumbnail and into my bones like black ink into paper fibres,

As I tossed the coin with bated breath.

It tumbled carelessly,

Edge over edge,

Silver gleaming and glittering -

A pale imitation of magnesium ribbon combusting from an open flame,

When I realised what it was that felt out of place:

I was hoping the coin would land on heads