And then suddenly I couldn't write anymore.

The idea of a clean blank page wasn't an opportunity anymore, it was emptiness that needed to be filled. I was money-crazed. I am money-crazed. "How do I make money with this?" "How do I turn my passions into a career?" "How do I monetize my dreams?" Every desire, every hope was coupled with financial realism, qualified by efficiency. If it probably couldn't make me any money, I didn't do it. If the method wasn't time-efficient, I didn't do it. Friends? Fun? Pleasure? What did these words mean anymore? I was tuned in to the reality, and became more aware and subsequently, more controlling.

And as I became more controlling, I fell more into despair. I spent the prime of my early 20's - the times where it doesn't matter if it matters - living in my parents home, unable to stay out too late (my curfew was around 11, though I broke it regularly), unable to dress too risque, unable to speak the way I wanted, or live the way I wanted. Ages 20-23, the time of late sleepless nights and house parties and drugs and liver destruction. I couldn't even crash at friends houses because I wasn't allowed. I always had to drive home. I gotta say, that led to a lot of dangerous drives home.

The thing is, I spent so long longing for a certain kind of experience that now, with the freedom to do so, I'm not sure what I want. I don't know how to define myself, I don't know which character I am in the books I read. I don't have any plan. I am, I am, I am.