Fetal Position

Seven days. All I have left of this part of my summer. And then I leave. Leave the town where I grew up, not knowing when I will be back. 

And then a week in Massachusetts. Another job, how many did I have this summer? And then I leave the country again: three weeks in Scotland. Two days in Berlin. A day in Oxford. I couldn't stay away long. And then Boston. Where do I put down roots? So many—too many—places; not there for long. Too many "and then"s. And then... and then....

And then already my senior year. "What are you doing when you graduate?" they ask me. Wouldn't it be nice to have an answer. How do I choose one thing? How do I even begin to choose? How can I choose now when I know how much I change in a year? How much I will change in this, my last year.

And then... what? 

The "and then"s surround me, press me on all sides. I try to sleep, but they suffocate me. I am crushed by questions and unchecked spaces on to-do lists. Time so short. Decisions so big. I collapse in, feeling the weight of these that pressure me, and yet, I rest, here in this fetal position as the thunder rocks me to sleep and the lightning lights up the room so I will not be afraid of the dark.