Lost to be Found

I can’t sleep late like that again, TOTALLY messed with my sleep cycle (yes, I’m deluding myself into thinking I’ve got one like a normal human being).

Now, I’m cranky and damn tired.

Okay, so part of it is indeed due to sleeping particularly late reading Ender’s Game (finished it within the day—amazing!) and another part is due to chronically poor sleeping from this annoying cold (plaguing me right in the middle of summer, eyuck!). Although, most of it is probably due to too much thinking again on all those issues I feel inadequate in, causing my heart to feel restless and my mind unhappy.

As if I’m constantly searching for something, something I don’t even know what.

During my pre-adolescent coming-of-age years, books were my dearest friends, my obsession, my teacher, my fantasy world, my salvation. As I settled more securely into adolescence, my family of four became my solid base in life. While I’m sure they always were my heart center, it was growing maturity that allowed the teenage me to not only realize and admit it, but come to appreciate a rather peculiar family. When all’s said and done, they are the ones that matter to me the most. Yet, I kept searching. Looking and looking...and looking...

And, all I found was a little girl so fearful of failure that she even hasn’t tasted yet.

Coward! If I feel I’ve already disappointed myself, how then can I say I live to love being alive?

I think that’s what I fear most—becoming jaded not because I’ve lived too long and too much (ha, I love life too much for such a thing to happen, right?), but becoming jaded because I don’t know what I want to do and circumstance unfortunately allows me to keep doing…nothing. I need that push, and I need it to come from within.

Otherwise, I’m lost and won’t be found.