Existential Crisis

I’m in my room at 11:37 p.m., tracing my desk’s grooves with my fingertips. 

Cold wood. Silver moonlight. 

My eye twitches. I feel my stomach growl.

The clock ticks—

tick.

tick.

tick.

…

Why am I doing this?

To make sense of it all? 

Maybe.

To fix what’s broken? 

Maybe.

To understand? 

Maybe.

Or maybe I’ll never know.

Does anyone ever know? 

What’s the goal—get to college? 

Start a career? 

Or aimlessly wander through the world, 

a spirit slowly dissipating into shadows?

I thought I knew the answers.

Do I?

tick…

tick….

tick…..

Maybe… that’s the point?