"What do you want to do with your life?"

(Yes, but could you use it in a different sentence, please?)

"What do you want to do with your life?"

(Can I possibly find that in a glossary, somewhere?) 

I've heard it enough times, in a thousand different voices: voices that all blend together, forming a thick tar that suffocates me, drags me down. Don't struggle, that will only make it worse. Voices that form the sound of a hundred wolves howling, teeth biting into my skin. Stay in line or get put down, rabid dog.

I don't know. I don't know. I don't know. I don't know. I don't know. I DON'T KNOW. 

They're all violently shaking me by the shoulders, so that my bones rattle together and my teeth ache in my jaw. The words don't form, they catch in my throat like fish in a net: floundering, seeking life, gazing with hopeless eyes at what is to become of them.

I am silent and passive, even as people make decisions all around. I hide in bed, fearful, as though the future is a monster that is going to grab me by the toes, haul me off, take me to the place where bad things happen to people who don't decide what they'll be at twenty something: purgatory, limbo, Hell itself? Surely Dante wrote a circle in there just for us.

You can be anything you want to be, you know.

(As long as it conforms to this very specific set of guidelines, of course:)

1. You can't be a writer, a poet, an artist, or a journalist. Those are hobbies, not careers.  
2. You had better be using all those brains you were blessed with to make some $$$.
3. You had better not disappoint us. We'll still love you the same, but maybe a little bit less than before.

Commandments that seem to come down from God himself.

Walls designed to keep me running in the direction they want me to go in. A rat in a maze, an animal in a trap, a cog in the well-oiled machine. Stay in line or get put down, rabid dog. 

"We know what's best."

"It's for your own good."

"Don't throw away all your talent."

My lungs are filling with salt water from my own tears and I'm drowning in the vast ocean that is the future from the inside out.

I sit on the porch and envy birds just because they can fly away. If only I was a bird. My only decision would be which direction to fly in. 

I stare at obituaries and envy the dead because they're in the silent, cool ground, a place to hear yourself think. If only I was a corpse. Everyone else would be deciding on my funeral arrangements: picking flowers I don't like (roses), dressing me up proper (for once), playing music I never listened to (organ hymns), crying about how I had such a bright future ahead of me (as a pharmacist, a surgeon, the girl who cured cancer). My stories and dreams will die with me, be cremated, stored in an urn, kept on a shelf, knocked over on accident, swept up, and thrown in the trash.

"Have you decided on a career yet?"

"What are you doing after you graduate?"

"Aren't you an adult already?"

I don't know. I don't know. I don't know. I don't know. I don't know. I DON'T KNOW.

The anxiety is a wet blanket over my face, smothering me. If I speak, fear and indecision will fall out of my mouth like clouded gems: rubies, emeralds, pearls, sapphires, broken facets of worthless riches, vomiting my hidden, hoarded treasures, dark secrets for all the world to see; a blind dragon who doesn't know it's in a dark cave.

You can be anything you want to be, you know.

Maybe there's a horizon, a distant speck to swim to, a miniscule island in this world just for me.

Pencil to paper there's finally a moment of clarity: the tears turn to stars, galaxies fall from my eyes, cities rise and fall under my fingertips, characters follow their dreams (my dreams) and most of all...

I can finally hear my own voice above the others.

I am not a bird. I am not a fish in a net. I am not a blind dragon. I am not a corpse, yet.

There is still time in this world to put something beautiful into it. Cut a swath in the jungle of confusion, get a life jacket in the ocean of anxiety, pick myself up, expand, expand, expand, until I take up the room I deserve. I will take on new commandments:  

1. I will walk with my head held high, flowers will spring up at my feet. I will create universes with my hands. I am a goddess who weaves words into tapestries brimming with brilliant hues and intricate designs.
2. I will stop apologizing for my existence: even if I'm not sure what it means to exist yet. 
3. There is an ending. It might not be happy, but I will write it myself and not let others dictate it to me. 

I will speak, I will speak, I will speak, even if no one is there to listen. My voice will ring out and become all I can hear.

I will become the rabid dog they so fear.