Afraid that when I wake up, the me that
I am will be someone else.
I’ll be someone else, or I’ll have lost something, won’t be able to
finish my life the way I started out,
full of dreams and newness and plans, it’ll
fall to shambles at the hands of the stranger who gets out of my bed.
What if I can’t do all that I need to do, I’ll run out of time, I know I will, I haven’t started any of my life plans yet, and still, I can’t imagine myself anywhere past 25. I can’t see myself at 30, don’t know what 40’d look like, and 60, 70, it’s beyond anything I ever touched upon. So I have till 25? ‘Tis a damn shame, considering I’m already 21, that’s less than four years.
Of course there’s no reason to expect I won’t be around at 26, 27, 29. Just because I can’t project, that doesn’t indicate anything. But then, there’s no reason to presume that I’ll even have tomorrow. No one says I’m going to wake up okay tomorrow. I may have lost something of the me I’m familiar with. Oh, shit, back to that. Anything could happen. I get confused, tired, scared, round and round and round, thinking myself in circles.
And what if, what if I get everything I think I want, things I think I need, and find out it was all wrong, nothing I can use, all wrong. What if I get what I ask for, and get what I ask for? What if my priorities are all wrong and I don’t find out until the day before I turn 25? Oh, right, I’m not going to disappear at 25 just because my imagination doesn’t stretch further. No matter. What if I find out too late that it was really that one I needed?
I lie in bed, afraid that my life is trickling away, afraid I’ve taken on too much, or not enough. Afraid that I’m too full of hopes and dreams I have no right to think about, and no backbone to carry out, and no courage to fight about. Afraid that my time will run out before I work anything out.
Around and around, convolutions and contortions, twisting it from all angles, and it still comes back to me, and decisions.