I am not sure if I want a “proper” job. Perhaps I want to write, to dedicate my heart wholly to a solitary pursuit. A pursuit that will earn me neither money nor acclaim. A pursuit that in time might cultivate resentment. I have never been practical or diplomatic. I regret that I didn’t write more often as an adolescent, that I didn’t hang on to writing assignments from childhood. I remember at times my thoughts and in all these years the content has suffered very little alteration. How is it that at 5 I was given to such complexities? How is it that at 32 I have resolved so little? I regret most of all that a lack of confidence has kept me from pursuing my passions, even privately. That that same soul-devouring infirmary has caused me to discard previous endeavors. I amputated myself from the neck down. Sometimes a head, at other times a heart, but never both simultaneously.
I fear time, she alludes me. How can one simply subtract four hours from a schedule that already overwhelms (though is comparatively meager)? My apartment remains even in surplus of time a mess. My head likewise. With weekly therapy, swim classes and the addition of enrichment activities that consume entire days I am no longer feeling under-stimulated. I sat in a room full of strangers today. I sat with my limbs curled around my trunk, exhausted but permeable wishing desperately that I was the one dancing. Longing desperately for the warmth of home.