Identity Crisis

Since January, my life has almost constantly morphed with the viscous ease of oil on water. The pentagon that was my five-faceted family collapsed upon itself in just three short weeks and emerged as a triangle, with my mother, sister, and I the points of an enduring trinity that celebrates its missing pieces, its remembered completeness. We have always been close, and we will always be happy. The only difference now is the awareness that forever… isn’t.

I am writing with fierceness and desperation. I am writing to capture what won’t be forever. I am afraid of being forgotten, and I am afraid of being lost. What makes my life worth recording? I suppose only the fact that I wish to record it.

I want to write about other things, too. I like to make up worlds and spend happy hours dwelling in them with an imaginary cast of characters at my command. But now doesn’t seem the time. I read recently about a fictional someone whose life changed suddenly after he began his own work of fiction, and when he tried to continue writing, it all seemed irrelevant. I can relate to that. My life is too mutable. I’m too busy trying to figure out who I am and what I’m doing and where my twenties are going to direct the fates of figments.

But then… we all need an escape.

And just how did I get here?