Moss

Alright. Let's recap.

I live in an apartment with a guy I've known for a while. I work at Starbucks. I read books sometimes, and I try to keep my bathroom clean.

I love living on my own, but I miss my family. I miss living effortlessly. Loving who I live with all the time. But I dread the idea of living alone, and so I don't.

I am entertaining the idea that I am manic depressive. If said hypothetical self-diagnosis proceeds, it will change how I view myself. Or maybe it won't. It doesn't really matter, cause I'll be whoever I am in whatever moment.

I love my job, and I love the people I work with. It's when I'm not working that I have no idea what I'm doing. "Doing with my life" is a bit dramatic, but it is my life, and I don't know what I'm doing, so that's an apt phrase.

I get this tight feeling in my center when I wonder if this year is a dead year, a filler between phases in which I know exactly what I'm fulfilling, and so I don't wonder about it. I know this year matters sheerly because it exists, but at the same time, I don't know that. I am looking forward to reading this post once the year has passed. Most years of my short life have held milestones I know will define them, but this year holds none I know of, and so I'm left to wonder what milestones will surprise me. I'm more scared of them than not, but maybe the glass isn't half empty--just too big.

I have no definition. I'm not working towards anything, I have no roots anywhere, I have no answer to the question, "What do you do when you're not working?"

I am moss, and the stone isn't rolling.

I hope this didn't sound too sad. I'm not too sad. I'm not too happy either, but it's that middle ground that I'm trying to become best acquainted with.

I am moss on the middle ground.