I feel somehow that they have mislabelled you

Perhaps just penned you in the wrong ink...

I'm not sure

It seems when I try to describe you, the idea goes sailing away and never anchors home

Slippery one might say...

As the man crawling out from beneath the wreckage of a rolled-over vehicle, slathered face to shins, in blood and *****

And the words that had beckoned to him
Now thoroughly lost...

Nothing more then a few gruelling moments in agony before it was just a memory and a phrase that didn't quite seem to fit...

Unreal. What did that word even mean?

It felt insulting.

As though the momentary terror that had consumed your reality was nothing more then a passing storm -- No more then a ghost or a Flying Dutchman...

But could the same not be said for it all?

Is any of this really what we came here for?

The choice alone is too much for me not to waste it and I fear if I leave it for too long that the choice will inevitably make itself...

But perhaps maybe that in turn is the choice

--The freedom to be or not...