I often think about the millions of other versions of myself that I could’ve been.
Out of forty to three hundred millions, only one sperm cell successfully manages to make its way all the way to the egg. That’s millions of whole other personalities, appearances, mindsets, and possibilities that differ from who I am today. In those millions, there are versions of myself that are smarter, prettier, and ultimately, better. How unlucky I am, I always deem, that the one that made it to the finish line is what it is today. Flowers of sympathy Iie in the vessel of my soul, for I mourn those millions of tiny shard-like fragments of potentialities. Potentialities that even the best version of myself today, like an ant to a skyscraper, would fail to be even. So as I move through life, motionless as a doll, eternally will I grieve those versions of myself I’ll never be.
