what is my life? what has it become? i am progressing or regressing? how am i balancing my values?
what will everything amount to when this short whisper of a flame i call my life has been snuffed out? what then? a dusty memorial? words on a page? saltwater regrets? so much flustered, fevered planning, so much longing, nostalgic hindsight. neck continually craning forward, then backward, forward, then backward. yearning, yearning, yearning. what am i reaching for?
my passions? or passion, singular? the all-encompassing, everlasting, undeniable, living, breathing power and beauty of the written word. periphally — the constant urge to discover more, to peel away its layers, to dissolve within it, to create from it, to share it. to watch it impact young developing minds like tidal wave after wave as it did mine. to watch the boundless and limitless potential of children surge forward into a roiling cloud of change that builds upon the lessons they have learned, the lessons they continue to learn.
am i living my life in a way that demonstrates this? that demonstrates the power and regard of something larger than this tiny whiff of existence? that legitimizes my very claims to taking this breath? this one? this one?
what is my life?