We
collect our senseless mistakes in our hands and we clutch them to
our chests, knowing they’re now ours and ours alone to
carry. We don’t get to hand them over to some alternate
version of ourselves, in some alternate Universe, and ask him or
her to lighten our load. Alternate-you and alternate-me has his
or her own burdens to bear; ones we know nothing about, and never
will. Because as much as we like to idealize these alternate
versions of ourselves, none of us can ever be certain that
they’re worth envying at all.
