Half Way Home

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I am not a historian by birth. I received no training in that field. What follows comes from an amateur at relating past events. Also, by dint of birth, I’m not a leader. The mistakes I made are described freely and accepted as my own. Of course, I could go on and on listing the things I’m not, but allow me to save the space by telling you what I am:

I am a psychologist.

Half of one, anyway. Half-made, half-trained, half-dead.

And this is the story of my home.

I was a blastocyst, once. A mere jumble of cells clinging to one another. A fertilized egg. Of course, we were all in just such a state at some point in our lives, but I excelled at it in a way you didn’t. I spent more time in that condition than I have as a person.

Hundreds of years more, in fact.

I still like to imagine myself like that: a shapeless form, quivering and ripe and full of potential. Holding that image in my head makes it seem as if I haven’t been born yet, as if we could let things play out one more time and arrive at some different destination. Perhaps it would lead to a new, fuller me.

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