I often wonder how my life would be
had I followed one of the other paths
now ever so very distant behind me.
At one time I was a fine actor.
I drew convincing sketches of people.
I ran the mile in under five minutes.

Then I decided that I would never
achieve acclaim as an Asian actor,
that my art would never sell for enough,
being limited to shades of bland grey,
as for athletics I picked up smoking.
So now I choose to write: a medium
where it doesn’t matter what I look like
and everyone uses identical tools
and smoke can augment creativity.

But whenever I might happen upon
an actor, an artist, or an athlete,
I can’t help but see shadows of a life
I chose not to live.

Doubt begins to rise.

And I’m compelled to write my feelings down.