This can’t be it.
I can’t be looking at the next forty years of my life. There has to be something more.
I’m not even sure you’re supposed to say that out loud.
Maybe it’s a quarter-life crisis talking, or maybe it’s real. Breathing. Peering out from the shadows of long days and screaming at the top of its lungs. Maybe there is something more.
But I can’t quite put my finger on it. All I know is that I’m not ungrateful for what is, and it isn’t lost on me that what is should be enough.
But somehow it isn’t, and I guess that’s okay, too.
Restlessness promises opportunities if you’re brave enough to chase after them, and I want so badly to be brave.