None of this is a choice. I think as I look down at the tiny nubs of flesh prickling their way across the keypad as I type. I never wanted to be a dancer. I never wanted to be a writer. I never wanted to be human. I was never given the choice. What choice am I given? It feels as though heavy arms loom above me with their dark harassing shadows whispering silent threats of persuasion. Persuasion into doing what the owner of the arm wants. Needs? The arm could smash down on you, if you don’t give the owner what it wants. Killing you instantly. The owner hisses. It could end everything you love. With an anchor thump of all of its might. Just lean into the persuasion and pretend you don’t feel it. And we’ll all be happy. The owner never shows themself. Just a massive, stubborn, menacing arm floating high above the non-statement breathing grass. Its shadow reaching far beyond the hills of the barefoot. Whispering with a voice that you can never fully comprehend whether it truly belongs to the arm or if it’s coming from your own head. “You can’t live without shoes”. I’ve never actually seen the owner of the arm. I don’t think anyone has. Does it have an owner? Does it need a body for it to be realized? A face? Or can an arm own itself? I think the arm wonders that way too much. Maybe it paints a face on its bicep and pretends to have an owner. I wonder if that makes it feel better. If I was the arm I would be friends with the sun and make shadow puppets. If I was a big arm in the sky, I would find new ways to stretch my appendages into stories for the earth and moon. I wonder why I don’t do that for the people around me. As a human. Anymore. I don’t think they’re worthy. It isn’t my choice, to not. Maybe, I should try harder. Maybe I’m scared they’d want something from me. When I don’t want anything from them. Or maybe I’m scared they’ll convince me I want something from them. The only thing I want is for the arm in the sky to know I don’t want anything from it. And also that I love the way it looks.