There was an odd feeling deep in my bones tonight. Like spring in autumn, a bounce in my step, a desire to run wild.
I was on the bus home, cider in my veins, on my way to my family home, my childhood bedroom, my work. To do work.
I almost rebelled. This feeling pushed.
In a moment, in a flash, I would have been off the bus, out to go dancing and socialising, rebelling as if I were still young. I am still young (I am!) but, as the crowd reminded me as the bus pulled past, not that young. It has been more than twelve years since I first went to that nightclub. So long ago.
And yet this need still pulsed through me. Why do I need to work? Why can't I still run wild? After all I do still live at home. I am still a student.
Instead the bus drew me on, drew me home, to the life that is still in flux as I fail to grow up or live young. The life in which I failed to decide who I want to be.
I run late, searching for things that cannot be found. Like a white rabbit joining the hunt for snarks.
