Futurism, or, Selective Optimistic Naivety

On the white page

I've just populated in your head

draw a line segment

(a line extends forever)

my life exists along this line

every choice made, every heart broken

every smile, every drop of sweat

all of it in a row

But from inside

(now draw some branches, go on)

I can see these other worlds

other versions of me

I charge ahead

but I must confess

the other ones

they generally seem like they're 

having a better go of it

So what makes me

the one in charge

truest timeline

truest self

and moreover

how do I keep it that way?

I look ahead

(along that straight line)

and I can finally conceive of the end

so I picture the thread

which will lead me to the finish

with the least regrets

A darker path

but an honest one

but how can you know for sure?

I peer at the others

so confident they chose right

their pleasant days and restful nights

But how can you steer

from what rings true

away from the magnetic, the gravitational

Take a deep breath now and close your eyes

Erase the many forks and branches

I must always move forward

and so I march on

The flanking phantoms fade

the gnarled path reveals itself to me

But no matter where it leads

it travels along the line.

some days I just want to hope

or be naive enough

to believe

and I think I finally do.