Handwritten #2 - Originally Written 10-03-2012

Periodically throughout every single day I find myself battling what are essentially panic attacks about my future. Where I am going from here is such a murky process in my head that I find myself more and more afraid of time's passage. Am I missing out on something important? Am I living life to the fullest? As an overweight, single, twenty-three year old woman who somehow manages to feel all alone in a crowded room of friends, the answer to that first question becomes an obvious and resounding, "No." 

But why is that? What is holding me back? 

I can't seem to put my finger on it. I can't seem to put my finger on anything what with alarms from my phone constantly leading me hither and thither through my life. I don't have any spark or passion urging me to live my life. I feel like I'm just here. I'm just going through the motions of each day, never feeling a single iota of any sense of purpose. 

Is this depression? Is this a mid-life crisis at the age of twenty-three? Is this just whining and being pathetic? Is this just how life is? Am I as alone as I think I am most of the time, or does everyone go through this phase? 

I feel the sun against my back. It feels much like a warm embrace but it's not comforting. It just reminds me of that which I don't have: love, affection, companionship. I have to share a one-sided embrace with the sun's heat because I can't get it elsewhere...

The wind has constantly been whipping at my clothes and hair, threathening this very page I write on. Does it seek my attention? Does it yearn to be recognized? Does it have a destination? 

The mismatched, colorful, and dead leaves scraoe and crackle against the pavement, dancing in glare of the sunlight and the breath of the frisky wind. Like indistinct chatter the noise fails to cease and I can't follow the leaves' logic. I only know that as they've died, they've become more beautiful. They are more noticeable. 

The reds, the oranges, the yellows... they make me wish I were a painter so I could re-create and cherish their lustrous and vibrant death-toll colors. But alas I have only this pen, paper, and a command of the English language. Is this art? Is this my calling? My future? 

I failed to notice the sounds of insects. The whipping wind and crackling leaves squandered the insects' harried speech. They are loud and persisten. But why? Are they, like me, just yelling into empty space? 

The leaves laugh and chatter and I'm still left with no answers. October is here.