His life seemed to be a vast sprawl of decisions and desperation. As if he were an angler trying to flick his wrist for a special catch, as if the still pool held secrets which merely needed to be hauled to the surface, he cast his reel and waited for a jerking movement which showed he'd caught the right fish. He longed to place it on cool leaves in the bottom of a wicker basket, but the poster-perfect image he must have seen on a calendar faded and his hands remained merely wet.
If he'd only known which blending of choice and insight could have yielded the perfect house on the quiet street, he would have taken it. If he'd known where to find Shareen he would have looked for her earlier. If he'd known what degree program would have led to job satisfaction, what he'd learn from each of his friendships and betrayals, whether he should have emptied the piggy bank for a bike or save for the future purchase which would complete his life, then he would have had a better grip on the future. Time moved inexorably in one direction, through green fields and onto roads and streets and then finally from the bathroom to the kitchenette. At last, gathering speed in the downhill sprint, it led to an inevitable and easily imagined end.
Cast as a child into a headlong race, he ran from degradation to triumph, suspecting that the profound insight he was meant to uncover wouldn't materialize, and terrified that it might.