The days tick by like the second hand on a clock. I feel it. I can see the fork in the road coming from a long way off, but I squeeze my eyes shut and pretend I have everything in hand.

I don't. I don't know what I'm doing.

The deadline, the dead line, the expiration of my visa stomps closer and closer and I ignore it.

New Zealand, or Canada? New Zealand, or Canada?

Flight prices creep up unapologetically while I try to decide.

~

"The landlord wants to look in your room," my house mate messages. It's a problem, since I'm not supposed to be living there, and the landlord doesn't know I'm in there.

"It's okay," I assure him. "It'll be good practice to see if my stuff fits in my suitcases."

I clean, I clean, and pack and stuff and shove. I leave my brimming suitcases on the naked mattress. I stay out of the house for the day and worry, worry about transporting my things. All the stupid clothes I had to go and buy. The shoes.

Why did I buy so many pairs of shoes?

I must be an idiot.

~

I look up apartments in New Zealand, in Wellington and in Auckland. I email everyone I know there, the dyer I met on the shuttle from the studio, the assistant director I met on the bus in Turkey, my cousin, the kiwi costumer I met on the tour of the oldest costumier in London.

I still can't decide. The indecision grips at me. I spend the afternoon making pancakes with too much butter, and ignoring my responsibilities.

One person says New Zealand, one person says Canada, another says New Zealand. Canada, New Zealand.

I long for my tools, packed away in my mother's basement in the Rockies. I long for adventure, for the unknown, for the what-ifs.

I long to start up my own company, I long to buy a house. I long to not cut off my options. I want to try, but I also want to sleep.

I lay awake at night, so tired, so tired. The sound of my heartbeat in my ears keeps me awake, and I long for it to cease, to quiet, so I can finally get some sleep.

I just want to give up, to let it all fall away, to put down my load.

But there's a fire in my chest. It's hot, persistent, boiling in the center of me. It won't let me quit, it won't let me sleep.

Farther, it whispers. Fly higher, fight harder. Look at how far you've come, look how higher you have jumped. Farther, farther, it's not the time to rest.

I finally fall asleep with the soles of my feet pressed together, and my hands clasped on my chest, like a baby.

I dream of work, and I wake up feeling refreshed. I wonder if I ever will feel like an adult.

I think I will probably not.

I feel life's possibilities crashing around my ears, leaving fewer and fewer paths, and I fight the feeling by doing the unexpected.

How I long to sleep.

.

Rosie.

Before&After