It is quite frightening to be aware that you are waiting and yet helpless in doing something about it. You know how much it costs to stay still, and you know how much is weighed against movement. Every motion requires a counter-motion, something to balance the tipping scales. Each day brings a sense of death, as if there's another day lost to mediocrity and habit. Even everyday rituals have lost their sanctity. Something is off, somewhere a poem has lost its meaning.
I don't know what everything means, or where my place is in this scheme of things, this search for some shred of sense in my world. It's not a particularly violent event - just a feeling of disquiet, of uncomfortable silences. I am afraid that I am giving into this pull of habit, this swirling tide that tells me that I can settle for what I have right now, to not ask the universe for anything else because this is more than enough.
But I know that this isn't enough, that I am outgrowing this skin that I'm wearing right now, that everything is not what it seems. I know what I am looking for, and at the same time, I am afraid to find it.