Fragments: Self-Analysis 1

I wish I was even more ready to move on. I am half-way there, at the moment. I see my parents' life, and it is that future I fear. I want no part of it, but fear as well the uncertainty of finding my own way. I find myself stuck here in the middle, as always. As usual, I am consigned to the fringes, the in-between places, the margins. I just can't seem to write between the lines. I once said that I was the page that spit back the ink printed on it. But now I realize that my true position is that of the words that fail to make it to the page. I am the unpublished novel, the unperformed concerto, the unrevealed painting. I am the unspoken "I love you," "I do," and "Goodbye," all rolled into one. I am a Christ still unresurrected on the fourth day.