Updated: Jun 17
I find a lone coin on the side of the road. The scene here is familiar - my hands are as hesitant as ever. They reach out to pick up what is a symbol of my luck but are met first with the ironed out blood which seeks to escape the jarred cuts on my hands, which will corrupt the coin before I have a chance to pick heads or tails.
I won't get enough time to choose before it dissolves in my hands, before any amount of certainty I thought I was promised becomes entirely illegible.
Such is the case with new beginnings, which more than anything are disguised endings: a one-way ticket to the end of the movie is showing up at the start.
But without the option to choose, without the certainty of control, without the knowledge that possibilities exist where I am not always looking down looking for coins, looking for signs
without without without
Shit, I lost my ticket.
I lost my ticket and all I know of beginnings are trailers into the future which may not always deliver what they promised. All I know of endings are pitch black screens and the rush of cold blood to my head and the numbness that comes with an understanding of expectations and reality.
The cinematography of my romanticization, the glitter over our ignorance as to how poorly this is written, the coin which is just metal assigned value and you are just person assigned purpose and I am just a writer trying to make sense of the world which more than anything loves its circumlocution and cycles of new swallowing the old.
My stomach hurts.
Did I swallow the coin?
Why does it feel like my luck is flowing from my heart to my brain to my lungs to my legs and I'm tired, I'm cold, I want to sit down on the street and let the metallic air wash over me.
My luck is everywhere but in my hands.
Ummama Imran is an in-house writer at Perspective.