today.

I am now 22 years old.

I remember where I was a year ago. Curled up on the couch, secretly wishing I could escape my own birthday party, escape the people, escape my life, escape time and circumstance. And a year later I can't say whether I'm much happier now.

I'm beginning to wonder if life isn't about happiness. I think I would be okay with that, but the problem is I don't know what life is about instead. It seems we're all chasing this idea of what it means to be happy, this idea of what it means to feel like everything is in its place, like everything is right, and we're in love with it all.

But honestly, things are never right. There are fleeting moments of pure beauty and joy, but I can't claim them as mine any more than I can create them. I can't keep them in a jar to save for later- they pass through my fingers as soon as they arrive. And the things that seem to stick to my soul like molasses are unfortunately the things I wish life did not consist of: confusion, hurt, misunderstanding, anger, jealousy, chaos, hate, fear, inadequacy, mistakes.

I find myself at this time in my life shying away from it all, sitting in my lost-ness, looking at my still feet, singing beneath my breath to people passing by, looking into their eyes only as long as I can bear to. I am scared to love. I find myself looking at my hands and asking them why they've done the terribly destructive things they've done. I sit quiet at His feet, too scared to ask Him or anyone else whether it's too late to still be innocent.

Is it too late to empty my jar of its bloody molasses and fill it instead with lightning and fireflies?