I snapped at her yesterday. I told her to get off the bed so I could make it. Its raggedness rankled me. Usually, I do not care. I jump right in, rumpled and untucked sheets or not. Looking back, the untucked sheets reflect my inner state. I am untidy inside. There are slithering things that require straightening.
There is something bothering me. I do yet not know what it is. She noticed it before I did, as she always does. She manages my emotions. She should not have to do it. She should not do it. I should. It is my job to take care of my feelings.
I reach for the burrs on my mental foot, feeling for them in the dimly-lit breadths and bottoms of my mind. Like grasping for silhouettes in a dream, cupping smoke, the thorny ghosts outrun me. I can almost see them just beyond the periphery of vision, hidden and mocking, flitting in and out of sight.
To this add the spice of Damoclean uncertainty hanging over me, as over most people, about where I am headed. I feel I am on the wrong path and real life is waiting for me on another less winding and wider road.
It is funny: when I was younger I thought I would have spelt life out by now. Yet, here I am, as lost, confused and scared as I was when I was a child. If only I knew exactly what I was supposed to be doing. I would not be here hurting those around me and myself in the learning.
Still, I reach expectantly into the eternity that is the future, that tomorrow holds a light and minimal mystery.