Dear May,

You are all around me in your strangest form. I feel your warmth, the ever-glowing presence of the sun shadowed by the gray sheath of clouds and tingling drops of rain. With your arrival an ending has attached, I leave a life, a group of friendsand return to sheltered suburban-ness. My communal, carefree society is malignant to the scorning of my other life. I feel two-faced. I am ashamed. I see nothing wrong with the existential being that consumes me until their worries penetrate my membrane. They don't know. They have no reason to worry. I am not drowning in a pot of sinking sand. Though at times I feel I am. At times I fight nature. I fight instinct, I create an internal gnawing at my identity. What is it? Who am I? I feel like "Most Likely to Not Succeed". I have no motivation, I have no challenge. That's it. Nothing to challenge me, to keep me focused. No incentive. But I should. My parents are broke. That should be enough, but it's not. I am sinking. I can't return home. I sink faster there. There's nothing to grab on to, no consistency, except my mother's irrationality and drunken stupor. I flee from it. I want her to be one thing, but she is not. I want to tell the world my troubles, but in a whisper. I'll talk until somebody listens. Someone will. 

Oh, May. You bring me to a crossroad. Who am I? What do I want? Where should I go? And most of all, What is important?