I am unable to write. There are too many things yet to be understood, to be said, to be felt and to be expressed. This moment alone can fill chapters. Tomorrow my sister will drive away from Florida for good. Although Florida isn't my home I still feel as if I, too, will be shedding some old skin, for tomorrow's journey will mark for me the beginning of my new life - a life that from where I am now, hanging out by a milestone, is still looking very uncertain. Will I like my first full-time job? Will we find a decent apartment? Will my papers come through in time? What about my friends and the dawn of our time apart on separate trails? How is the rest of it supposed to unfold? Am I going the right way?
There were also the moments with its own bundle of thoughts and questions before this one - Disneyworld, reading the Kite Runner, deciding on a job, graduating, a family reunion, a grave loss, senior week, reading period, falling in love, my thesis - that is only as far back as a little over two months ago...But from the time I started this thing, from last summer, I feel as if I've journeyed through deserts and oceans, climbed mountains and fallen in cliffs with but a vague idea of what it has all meant and where it will all go. Overwhelmed, the writer within me has decided to shut down and rock itself to catatonia - silencing the fear and doubts disturbed only with incomprehensible groans. Nothing is thought out. Nothing is written.
Debilitating is the sense of exhiliration mixed with sorrow from having felt so much or feel like one has done so much but at the same time seeing that I'm not that far from where I was and that there's still miles and miles to go. Debilitating is the thought that each step from here could take me to one of the many tens of millions of possibilities, for both joy and disappointment.