You know, I used to have a plan.

I'm a list-maker, a planner, an organizer. I have lists of things to learn about, lists of places to go, lists of dreams I had that made a lasting impact on me, lists of things to do to celebrate the month of October, lists of favorite smells, lists of memories, lists of letters to write, lists of books to read, and on and on and on.

Somewhere along the way things got fucked up.

Of course, it's entirely possible that they were actually always fucked up, but I was too busy sticking to the path I had picked out that I didn't realize. When the next several years of your life is planned out, you don't have to think very hard.

I used to think of myself like a donut: sugary sweet on the outside, and completely empty inside. I was positive that if someone looked at me closely enough they would realize that there was absolutely nothing inside of me. Just nothing fucking there. That I was actually just faking everything and going through the motions, looking like I had a clue what the fuck was going on. (I never did.)

Now my problem is almost the opposite: after peeks at that infinite darkness I might just want to pull that donut back out. It was safer. Prettier. Easier to deal with.

Today one of my students stayed to talk to me after class. He asked me what kind of job I wanted. I said I didn't really know. He asked me where I wanted to live. I said I didn't know that, either. All I could say was that I didn't want to be hot all the time. Or cold all the time.

Yeah, that's pretty much what I got.

All those "plans" are shot to hell.

I've been feeling for about a year now that there's something I'm supposed to be paying attention to. To be open to. It kind of irritates me to say it that way because it sounds so New Agey and mystical, but it's really the way I feel. What the hell to do with that? Maybe if I could stop to breathe for a moment I could pay attention to something besides running, running, running, going, going, going.

I have not had any sleep.