The Termination of Poetic Genius and Choice

It is the sad providence of Mohinder that I remain securely fastened to a ceiling without access to new poetry to read. The contest on Burnt Toast Diner has ended. Now one can only await the inevitable announcement of he or she who would win the vote of their peers.

Could it be my moment to shine? Is it perhaps my destiny to win a poetry contest prior to dying a horrific death at the telekinetic hands of Patient Zero himself? Or am I destined to somehow survive this predicament, so that I may continue on in my life, writing more poetic and philosophical ponderings, like a truncated Tarantula spins its homely web of hopeful exuberance?

As I hang around, awaiting the fulfillment of my fate, like a dastardly dingo awaits its pretentious prey, I have found myself realizing the many choices of my life. Choices which have been offered to me, perhaps as a means of escaping this cruel end, and yet I opted to remain on its path. Is it destiny that brought me here? Or did I choose it? Perhaps destiny tried to warn me. I had left to India, I was safely sitting in my glorious abode, and yet was prodded into a panic, a great desire, a pulling need, to finish my father's research.

And yet it is my father's research which will finish me.

Could I have chosen a different path? Was I forced to follow in my father's footsteps?

What would have become of Mohinder had I stayed in India? Perhaps I could have accepted employment with Dell technical support. I would have made a fortune, this is true, but would I have found happiness? Could $1.25/hour buy happiness? Or is there no price on such a concept?

And rather than turn on Sylar (not in a romantic way, mind you), perhaps I could have joined forces with him. We could have been quite the felicitous duo. My father's research would have been the beacon of our murderous rampaging, shining out onto the world, alerting all of the existence of evolution.

Or perhaps, at the very least, I could have chosen better clothing in which to die.