existential_philosophy ovenbird I haven’t seen the philosopher in twenty years, so it’s a surprise when we meet in a forest of cardboard boxes, each big enough to be a home. After some obligatory small talk, the “how are yous” and the “its been so longs,” he poses a question: “Who are you in the life where you chose differently?” This isn’t rhetorical. He expects that I know the answer. I consider it carefully. Then I say: “I am myself, but I have different parameters, different regrets.” We continue: “What was the pivot point?” “Believing that home was for leaving.” “What unbalanced you?” “Believing that someone else’s dream could be my own.” “What do you know for certain?” “I was never free.” The philosopher sips his coffee. His eyes are blue. He smiles, as if I’ve got the truth smeared all over my face, as if he’s about to give me a gold star, as if the future might still love me. 260423 what's it to you? who go blather from