I'm feeling rough, I'm feeling raw, I'm in the prime of my life

I think about this kind of thing a lot when I'm driving. Or maybe I just think about it a lot in general. Though, driving alone usually does see the worst and best of me-

At times I believed the last page of my book and the last page of my life were one in the same, that when my book ended I'd end, a great wind would sweep through my rooms carrying the pages away, and when the air cleared of all those fluttering white sheets the room would be silent, the chair where I sat would be empty.

Admittedly, there have been countless times where I sat alone in my bed, or someone else's floor, in the middle of the night (or very early morning- whichever you prefer) writing at the speed of light. Surprised that my messy jotting could even keep up with my trail of thought. Page after page, confession after confession, spilling out of my hand so quickly and ultimately unrelenting. All the while thinking that I can't stop because somehow this is keeping me sane and grounded. This mess of emotional excess and spiritual confession is what's holding me together at 3:13 am. Like if I stopped, all I'd have left is a silent bedroom and sleep hovering over me, waiting patiently, while I lie there drained, silent, emotionless, and rebellious against it's plea.

I'm young. And I know better than this. And though somehow I've managed to have faith in things unseen and hope which is the substance of those things, when I think logically about my future all I see is a wall. Not in a depressing way, but in a baffling sense.. Like, though I feel young and alive and that the world is probably right here at my fingertips, I still feel like I've lived so much thus far. And when I think of being sixty years old, my life so full now after nearly eighteen years of life, how thick and heavy will my book be then? You won't even be able to lift that thing! The fuzzy, dreamy part of me is so excited to cherish it, but a portion of me - in the practical sense- can't comprehend what that could possibly be like. To have such a life of mine to look back on. That in reality, I am so young - I have only lived the first few, scatterbrained pages of my novel.

Tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?