After so many years, Chris figured he should have been able to understand himself better than he did, but in the end other people always seemed to have a better grasp of him. It was strange, the way others could guess what he was thinking - feeling, even - before he himself had. Looking at his watch, he sighed at the annoying skipping of time. One second, two seconds, one minute, two minutes, an hour, it all mattered so little and yet so much. Here he was, at a time in his life where he thought he'd be rooted, ready, certain about the rest of his life, but the eternal rift between desire and sense remained.

There was wrestling, the beginning of it all, and no doubt the end. So many people wanted him back, and in a way he missed it. However, did he want to give up his secret dream, his passion for music, knowing he'd never be able to pursue that fully if he re-joined the WWE? But he'd failed at some of the things he'd set out to do, and while Fozzy was more popular than ever, there was still yearning for the business that had interested him so in the beginning. The business that had molded him and given him all those chances to pursue his other dreams?

Brushing a hand through his hair, he turned on the TV, his memory reminding him when Raw was on. The flashy lights, the familiar faces, the screaming of the crowd. He sat upright, watching as the wrestlers mourned, acted. Could he picture himself among them? Friends next to him, Benoit reminding him to act realistically, not get too caught up in the moment. Keep it real. He was still one of them, yet not. It hurt him, sometimes, to realise he didn't hear the things he used to hear, the lockerroom mentality one where you were in the know as long as you needed to be.

Mentions of injuries caused him to ponder his faults, his weaknesses, the fear of breaking down and failing at what he did. It was the wish to succeed in other things that had guided him out of the safe embrace of wrestling. Physical injuries, while horrendous, were nothing compared to the mental strain. Wrestling was hard, politics even heavier, the constant pushing and prodding relentless. Had he enjoyed life enough to deal with that? Had the time spent on his own, enjoying the things he did, been enough to get through the delicate art of surviving at cut-throat Island?

Watching with heavy eyes, he shook his head. No, not yet. Not ready. He'd be back, and he'd succeed, but not yet. Keep them guessing, keep himself guessing. Soon he'd meet everyone again, and they'd know him so well they'd know exactly what his decision would be. For now he didn't want to know. Not yet. Because he knew it would eventually break him.
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