The Three Choices

I am in a weird crux of my life. The opportunities are abounding; I have accomplished nothing but a mere educational stepping stone towards any and all of my potential paths. But I can't decide which one to go down. Part of me feels like I might pick wrong and end up failing. I can't fail, especially not after all it took to get to this point. The other part of me feels like I'm shutting out all of the other options once I decide what path to go down and I don't like being limited. Then the last part of me in this holy trinity of confusion and stress wonders what would happen if I just turn around and choose another path, one that noone would expect, that isn't as obvious or clearly delineated based on where I've travelled up to now. It's all so frustrating and whimsical and wonderful in an angering way. I take a walk and find myself in an empty park. I look up the flagpole, the bright red maple leaf waving back and forth in the wind of the summer day.

Red.

Red.

Red.

I look back down and across from me. There he is, standing across the park. He snarls and rakes a hoof across the arid earth. Pure, almost palpible ire and aggression fills the 100 meter distance between him and me. His horns brace forward, his eyes staring me down like fiery lasers, I feel the impending demise and fear builds up in me.

The bull charges and for a split second, my legs feel like concrete. My mind racing but my body motionless. I waved this flag, how did I not expect what was coming? There are three options as a matador. Flight, the obvious one, the one that makes the most sense and that leads to the most safe and predictable result. Fight, the ambitious one, the one that creates the most risk but if successful, the most reward. Faint, the non-performance one, the one that gives you absolutely nothing and yet is still an option. If I take flight, I am taking the most direct path to one door eventually. I can't go through all the doors at the same time and I still have to work a little to even open one of them. But it means that I maintain safety from the bull which is the goal and in reality, there is no wrong door. Now if I were to fight, I'm up against a mighty adversary, one that is full of ferocity and untapped power. That doesn't mean it can't be done, it just means that you have to gain some new skills in battling the beast. It means you will eventually have the ability to do both fight or flight, even if it takes more time and getting pronged a bit.

Fainting, that is the last one. It seems like such a cowardly option, how could anyone just roll over and watch themselves get trampled, especially with all the other options? The option of fainting, if chosen, is choosing to fail. As I stand here, frozen with all these thoughts blazing and a bull racing towards me, I realize failure is where the fear lies. I chose to arrive where I'm at because I chose a path a long time ago, but that doesn't mean there can't be a fork in the road. That doesn't mean you can't revisit something you walked past earlier. That also doesn't mean you can't take the path less travelled or a path that isn't paved yet. But standing at this fork thinking and not moving is me fainting, is me failing.

A bull is not triggered by the sight of red, in fact, they can't see the colour at all. It's the waving of the flag that bothers them enough to charge the matador. The vacillation of the muleta signals the bull a sign of a threat. The bull sees this and chooses to fight, a sign of bravery, strength, and perseverance. The red colour is only to mask the bloodshed that comes if the matador wins their battle. I guess it can also be used to cover the matador on the ground if he fails. So what will the matador do?

It's felt like an eternity of thoughts just filled my head and blinded me from my surroundings. My eyes have been open the whole time, but only now do I look around. The bull is gone, not a trace left. I'm no longer in the bullring with the crowd jeering and clapping and the hidden sword behind my muleta. My legs are finally released from the ground they were planted on and I breathe the warm, summery air. I look up and the flag is stagnant and drapes down the pole, no more wind to carry it. I take my first step