Whenever opportunity knocks, it's
complexity who enters;
inertia who seizes, and it's me
who never fails
to wonder—
whether real immunity (the kind
of liberty worth persuing) follows
from a life which is really
one long and unfailingly arrow-
straight hall—made
of white
enamel-painted brick, with
not a single curve
or junction—and with
absolutely no windows, doors or
access vents?
Whether complete freedom,
however counterfactually,
necessitates a perfect
prison—pure exemption
from decision? Whether I prefer
complete immersion
in a perfectly incontrovertible space,
where only the actual is possible?
Or—if what I really crave
are the built-in excuses,
if what I really need
is a little more room
to wobble? An escape hatch
behind a loose
brick in the wall,
a secret trap
door in the floor?—and further,
whether
the very circuitous truth
of my wondering
hasn't, in fact, already
dissolved the whole problem.
