Whenever I feel like I’ve lost myself, I find myself back here. Revisiting the old me, discovering my lost dreams, tracing the patterns of old scars in half-formed thoughts.

I was always so sure of who I was and what my potential was. I was grounded in my morality with a clear vision of the horizon ahead. I always imagined myself as some kind of martyr, giving up everything for the cause. It doesn’t matter if I don’t live to see the end as long as I’ve had a hand in making it happen.

I just don’t know what I’m doing. I’ve never known, really, but this feeling is so familiar. I thought it was something you outgrew, like hip-hugger flared jeans you wore to your 8th grade dance that you lied to your parents about going to. But here I am, pushed closer to 30 and wondering if jeans like those even exist anymore and where one could buy them.

I want to be excited for life again. I want the thrill of chasing something down, the single-minded focus of obsession and desire, of knowing exactly what it is you want and need and haphazardly firing off like a shot towards it.

I’ve always been a complacent person. It is who I am, at my core. I adapt to survive – always have, always will. But it makes me so bored. And boredom makes me reckless.

I want to start a fight. I want to make a mistake. I want to fight for someone, for something. I want to jump off a fucking cliff and genuinely be scared of what’s waiting for me at the bottom. I want the tiniest glimmer of hope that I’ll fly.