The Authentic Life

When she wanted to do something, she dreamt of doing it all the way. Extremities were her thing. Her mind floated away from her and landed on conclusions both distant and naive. A new yoga mat, for example, meant daily sessions of downward dog and child's pose set to Gregorian chants. A future of matcha tea and life on a mountaintop where she would be closer to reaching nirvana. All of this she imagined as she smiled at the corner her rolled mat leaned against far more often than it was ever used.

Such ideas were what her life was made of but never got past. They were like the boxes of sample-chocolates she enjoyed sifting through to find her favorites but would never go back to the store for more of.

She wanted to experience everything--but either lacked the perseverance or got bored too easily to expound. Instead, she collected these ideas and put them in jars--set them where she could see them on shelves of half finished books and other objects of high-intention. Her place marked in the third section of Sartre's lecture with a drawing from the last boy she imagined could be her soulmate. All of these things were a showcase of what she did not quite have, or in some cases, did not have at all--the possibilities comforting her nonetheless. She knew that these things existed. And not only that, but she had options--so many that sometimes it felt like enough. Still, if Sartre was right, she had realized before abandoning the book--if Sartre was right, she was fucked.