Dear Sal,

 I'm pretty hung up these days. My stanzas aren't working so well for me; I've never had to "try" at poetry...it's always been second nature. Once when I was in fourth grade, a girl asked me "How do you do that? How do you rhyme and make sense at the same time?" I get asked questions like that all the time. Writing for me has always been like breathing or as involuntary as blinking. But I've been putting a tremendous amount of pressure on myself. I am in "career" mode, I knew this would happen. I've started thinking about what I want to do with my life and the options are limitless. All of these options terrify me. I've been hiding behind things for so long I have no idea what my occupation should be; it seems like everyone has a dream or "God's called them to do something". I guess he hung up the phone on me. I don't like to think of dreaming because none of my dreams have ever worked out. Almost always inevitably I am forced to start over. I wish I could get to a place where "I just wanna be happy" is sufficient as the only thing on the list. But you can't make ends meet on happiness.
  Then, you add God to the equation. I keep waiting on some grand epiphany, some dream, some go sign, something...anything...that will tell me what he wants me to do. Then I find myself going mad...because I'm not altogether sure God works that way. It all depends on who you ask, it all depends on who you talk to...but everyone has this overarching belief that it is possible to choose the wrong road and sell yourself out completely. Is this my road? Should I have done something else? Should I have started early and planned to be a nurse, a biochemist, a candlestick maker? Then I think of my writing. It is a sensitive thing, a delicate thing, it's hidden its face in the chaos because I am so anxious; it treats me as if I don't deserve it. I constantly ask it why it has gone away and it tells me it is because I have abandoned it. It is partially right. I've expected too much out of it and exploited it. I don't know if I can write for money. I usually can write on cue, rhyme on cue, put together something marvelous on cue, but right now...my brain is in a vice.
 I'm not good at being alone.
 I prayed to God the other night to send me someone I could follow around just like I watch all my peers do. I asked him for a mask to cover up with, a noose to tie my neck with and a chair to jump off of. I asked him for marriage because isn't marriage supposed to save you? Isn't it supposed to make you happy? I need something to follow; the sound of my own drummer is obnoxious and at times too afraid to do anything remotely daring. It makes it hard to be brave when you're wading in aimlessness.
 I remember when I had it all figured out; that gave me this grand false sense of security. Perhaps that's what I want--a false sense of security, I'd settle for a cardboard box to crawl up inside of and pretend it's a time machine.
 Ironically, I think I'd go forward this time. I think I'm ready for the unknown. I am ready to be done coasting, to be done on autopilot and get to a place where I feel like I have something tangible that I can keep. I suppose, if we're shooting for vague, this is my list:

1. I want to not be afraid of my life anymore.
2. I want to live in the succulence between moments, never looking too far ahead or too far behind me.
3. I want to forget that I ever at one time felt like I had it figured out.
4. I want to be financially stable enough to support myself.
5. I want to find a career that makes me happy and glorifies God.
6. I want to fall in love for the right reasons, and not because I'm hiding, or codependent, or afraid, or running from something.
7. I want to have a garden (not even I understand what this means).