Good morning and good day, you pretty, shining fishes and creatures. Behold: the sun rises with healing in its wings. Breathe deep and ascend! Meet these promises of chance—yours, now. Do you see?

Horace Formerly the Tortoise asks:

Greetings, Pouting Trout. Do you have time for a fish story?

Most fishes don’t believe me when I tell them this, but what I say is true:

I was born in the jungles of southern Spain, near the port city of Cadiz. The aquifer of my birth is known as Teeming Channels. You’ve heard of it. You probably know TC by its other name: The Fountain of Youth.

Young and impatient for adulthood as children often are—and knowing I might never age if I stayed forever in the familiar waters of my birth—I struck out on my own when I was sixteen. For years, outright years, I wandered, puttering. It wasn’t long before I found myself in Cadiz—a really lovely city when you take the time to know it. I became a nocturnal creature, the Cadiz nightlife being so magical. One night, dozens of us played this game: we climbed into crates and hid ourselves beneath the cargo. The next morning, all the crates were hoisted onto ships. Eventually, that ship set sail.
At first, those of us discovered were cast overboard. I hate to think they didn’t survive the plunge, but Lord knows it was a better fate than what started happening the farther we got out to sea. Food was scarce, you see. Now, soup was on the menu.

Eventually, the ship made port in precolonial North America. The seven of us who survived were eyed callously by the hungry sailors who cursed missing meals all those callous days and feverish nights at sea. In the end, survivors were survivors, and myself and the others were carried to the edge of a nearby gully and set free.

My new life began on the east coast of what would soon be called Florida, USA, after a bunch of bloodshed. From there, I made my way westward. I lived in Louisiana for what I can’t helping thinking of as “most of my life” even though I’ve lived so much life since then. I had a family; we had a lovely, lovely life. And it was the most of my life. But they—died. That’s when I realized I never would. I do hold out hope that some of my children who went off on their own, and their children, and their children’s children, live on.

Years passed every time I blinked. Outright years. Decades.

I lived other, different lives. For the longest time, I kept to myself, cursing my gift—a burden, I thought then. I even tried to off myself more times than I care to admit, though always unsuccessfully. I never dreamed it was because some higher power had more in mind for me than that. Apparently unable to die, eventually I developed a reputation.

I got tangled up with a circus group for a while as part of the sideshow. “Oldest Turtle on Earth!” my marquis declared. “Damned thing CAN’T die! Come one, come all!”

This, too, I grew bored with. Fame, even infamy, is not something I’d wish on my worst enemy. We always want what we don’t have.

It didn’t even bother me when I was stolen away from that life. A witch doctor whisked me away to a wooden shack deep in the swamps of Mississippi. There, he made a pact with me:

He wouldn’t harm me more than he had to, he promised. He was forthright that his motives weren’t necessarily friendly, but I found that to be friendly enough. He needed my blood. He guessed what it meant, where I came from, or whatever. He made a deal with me: if I let him let me a little each day for a year (what was a year to me, anyway?), he would give me wings, lift the curse of this one burden of mine. We kept our promises.

I tell you these things for what they are. They really happened. Everything, both just yesterday and some hundred years ago. I’m not sure what became of that queer witch doctor. Mankind still wars as if for the sport of it. Myself, I live on, with wings now, just like he promised, but, alas, I begin to feel weary.

I never thought I would return to my homeland. Cadiz hasn’t changed that much. But, here’s the trouble: I have changed.

Everyone else has stayed the same. The immortality of small ponds spawns a certain stillness. So many familiar faces each untouched by time but lovingly greeting me as if I never left. And yet, now I don’t fit in. It’s no longer my home so much as a dream of a memory.

For what it’s worth, I got what I wanted. And I’m glad I did. Did I ever do what the Universe had in mind for me? Maybe not, but I’ve sure seen a lot. In truth, I thought I’d seen all there was to see, but I wasn’t prepared for this. I can’t help feeling heartsick over what was. It never will be again—and that frightens me.

Dearest Horace,

You’ve certainly lived a colorful life. So much color outside the lines can be blinding, but what a blessing. Yes, it’s depressing to wonder what might have been, but, consider this: having lived any other way, you wouldn’t be the you you are today. From where I’m sitting, you seem like the you-est version of yourself possible. If nothing else, take pride in that.

Belief might be the square, older cousin of Hope, but he’s never let on rent. Horace, I hope you know, wherever you are, whatever you’re doing, you’re right where you’re supposed to be. The mortal coil tightens if only from time to time. Don’t give up hope, my friend. Believe in yourself and the rest will fall into place.  

As for getting what you wanted: we always do. Anybody who says otherwise is just upset they didn’t set their sights on something else. You said it yourself: we always want what we don’t have. We think we know; we think we know better. The truth is, we never know. We are, each of us, babes in the woods. Whatever choices we make, we can almost always make it right. In your case, I recommend taking flight. Shake things up. Begin again. Look back in fondness of the lives you’ve shared, then look forward and honor their memory.