Restlessness: Well, this morning I decided I don’t like it very much.

It’s that feeling that wakes you up in the middle of the night, the one that induces stomach pains and headaches that have no specific bodily reason for existence or seeming derivation. I didn’t eat something bad. I didn’t drink too much. They come and go as they please, and nothing helps to abate them.

Distracting helps a little, but only for so long. It isn’t the act of examination that I fear, although my palms do get sweaty and my hands shake a little. It is the underlying implication that this examination brings. It seems to me as if they are lined up, all together, each having the same expectant look on their face that says, “Let’s go kid, let’s see what you’re made of,” one thing that I fear the most. I don’t even know what I am capable of, I guess. But somehow I like resting in the unknown, because it leaves no place to reveal lack.

My goodness, I’m nearly 25. When is this going to end?!

This morning after waking up I decided, I think I am going to take a wiffle bat to life’s knees, just to see where it will get me. Because I want to know what I’m made of; I want to know where I lack. I want to make myself better. And well, you will never realize you have the remnants of this morning’s powered doughnut on your face until you decide to look in the mirror. And wouldn’t you rather discover it now rather than 10 min later on the bus when a stranger informs you of it with the universal silent gesture of the “you-have-something-on-your-face” hand swipe? Yah, me too. :)

Oh...

Oh these hands, these frugal things
They create. They form.
They dig and worm in the dirt looking for shiny pieces of old metal.
Looking for life in things long dead.

Oh these feet, these weary things
The miles they have traveled could circle the earth, and still
So many more lie ahead, waiting to be uncovered,
Discovered and appreciated, much like our hearts.

A quick glance in the rear-view mirror brings joy.
Behind you, stopped at the light, sits an old friend in his old brown car.
First thought: he has aged more than you.
Second thought: we are the same age.
Third thought: How old am I?

Oh these years, these fleeting things
They shorten with age. They bring about a new you, unfamiliar and changed.
But it is a good you, a better you.

Oh these memories, these wonderful things
They fade in and out at times. They bring back joy long-forgotten.
They teach the lessons people can’t. They stand, though at times hazy.
When all else fails, they alone remind you of who you were, who you are,
And what you always dreamed of being.

Oh these hearts, these breakable things
Fragile, and sometimes seemingly broken beyond repair, but still
Capable of so much compassion, love.

Oh these souls, these beautiful things
Adept to dream, believe.
Unwilling to surrender, and willing to live.