I am twenty one years old.
The sky is bright, but wind whips the petunias and the trees.
I’m sitting on my mom’s couch. Cops is on, and I’m considering a Mountain Dew.
For the past few days, I have felt myself slipping into a deep depression. Not the kind that incapacitates you – this is merely the anxiety that blurs the edges of your thoughts and vision until you’re numb.
I don’t know what I’m supposed to do.
“You’re young,” some say. “Take advantage of it while it lasts.” While what lasts? My hard-headed ignorance? My utter lack of a niche in this world?
“Keep doing exactly what you’re doing,” a few have advised me. I wish that was sufficient.
What I hear more often is, “You need to pick somewhere to transfer to. The government will only give you so much financial aid. You need to pick a major. Get a good job. You’re only on my insurance for another four years, you know.”
Yes. I, in fact, do know. You tell me this as the man on the radio behind you screams that college is nothing but indoctrination; that you don’t need it to succeed at something about which you’re passionate. I know. I know.
People who have had near-death experiences weep for me. “Life is such a gift,” they say. “I never understood. Life is such a gift.”
Then why does a brief second of calm make me feel like I’m reeling as my opportunities shove past to spiral out ahead, far beyond my reach?
And how do they still feel as if they’re hovering in the air around me like apparitions, just waiting for me to grasp them?
If the answers won’t come, I’ll have to create them myself.