I feel guilt. Laden with a confusion about why. All the time. I wonder if I was meant to feel this. I question it. God. My family. Science. Epistemology.
My stepfather. His face, a memory. Rolled around on my mind’s teeth so long it ceases to hold meaning. My childhood transformed like an American neighborhood--built on trauma and blood and exploitation but looking very much like a traveller’s postcard now (and in a lot of ways not just looking like but feeling and functioning like, too).
I want peace, comfort, love, trust. I struggle with these things.
I feel pressure to make decisions, to decide.
I decide not to make decisions. To learn and love and be. To feel and hope and dream. To think and smile and enjoy. To be grateful for everything. This is happiness.