Wake up. It’s 7am. You’re alone; time to get ready. Shower. Fight the encroaching existential crisis. Put ice in your cup. Go to work.
A desk job. 8-5. Lunch break isn’t optional. Sometimes you stare blankly at your computer and wonder what the hell you’re doing with your life. Other times Barbara makes you laugh and you tap your heel in time to the music streaming through your headphones.
Music. You make a list of your favorite songs. You write your grocery list. You plan a Disney vacation and research how to start your own used bookstore. You look up transition to teaching programs and frown at the screen, wondering if that’s your mother’s voice or your own.
You check social media and admire all your friends from high school who have their lives together. Admiration turns to envy, so you drop your phone and swear to stay off it. Check social media three minutes later.
You decorate your home. You read books you’ve been meaning to read for years. You scream-sing and create your own version of an Irish river dance in your kitchen. Your crockpot is never dusty. Friends visit and you feed them pasta; they repay you in bad puns.
You go to IKEA. You cry on the couch. You visit different states. You memorize the Hamilton soundtrack. You call your mom, you sweep your floors, you write, you live.
You’re twenty-two. You feel twelve; you feel eighty-four. You walk outside, watch healthy leaves wither, squint your eyes into the sun, and breathe deeply the air that stings the inside of your nose.
You are content, and you are restless.
It’s 7am.
Wake up.