Nothing seemed to make sense anymore. I couldn't figure out the future and the present was a desperate mess of me trying to re-form myself into something that I could be content with. Nothing fit. All my clothes were too black, too boring, my hair a dismal display of sheer awkwardness. It was unhappy. The hair looked sad. I so longed to simply hack at it myself with a pair of fine silver scissors. Watch the dismal array fall faintly to the floor. And then the endless drumming of thoughts filled my consciousness. Nothing was for certain. I couldn't make up my mind with anything remotely resembling constancy. I couldn't picture a life. It was as though nothing was truly satisfying. Everything seemed to run its course. And what if the decisions I made, I regretted later on? What if the future contained nothing but a vast continuum of boredom? What if what I chose for a career ends up being a sorry attempt at something I was never made for? I was clutching at door handles that seemed to almost crumble in my hands. My terror at the whole affair seemed to ebb from me in blurry tiredness. I was too undecided about anything. I wanted to leave. But I felt that I was leaving to something incomplete. Something that urged me to confine. That urged me to be certain someone that I was unsure I could ever be. My mother's face keeps coming in and out of my memory. Her tired, weary eyes. Her smile that crackles and breaks. Her dry coarse hands with the flaky, weak fingernails. She was someone I almost pitied. Her life had turned out to be something her eyes told me she almost nearly regretted, despite the denials she gave. I want something more than that.Or at least a promise of something more than that. I just wanted to climb under my bed, with all the books I could never read and all the music I could never listen to and escape the incessant decisions that beg to be dealt with. Not now, not now, I'm so ill-equipped to make my mind up about the rest of my life.