I used to think of writing and journaling as a chore, or enhancement to my way of processing what I have been able to process and understand in recent days. That writing is an action that I could control, and it’s results would always be ‘good’. In reality, it is a true form that reveals more the state of one’s order, rather than what words they are able to produce.

All roads seemed to lead to a discolored yellow tattered road. With frightened, smiling faces littering the sidelines . I am expected, without consent, to reveal to myself what my life’s mission is, while all all from my part-time job, where I am on call and expected to be part of all processes the non-profit experiences. I feel a crawling duty to be more proactive with my parents with my parents , though the curling of my stoma and sharpening anxiety attacks help numb the guilt.

I refrain from defaulting to the method of hope, simply because it is the default.