Doorways

A feeling I don't like:

The one that feels like you're slowly being ripped apart, but whoever is doing the ripping won't just finish the job, so you're left there, suspended above what used to be your soft, warm, comfortable bed, and feeling a discontent so acute it seems strange that no one else can see it.

I just feel anxious. For what? I don't know. Maybe the anxiety is what is doing the ripping. Am I anxious to finish off the semester strong? Anxious to get out of Provo and cross the ocean? Anxious to lift off, to soar? To stop feeling so . . . suspended?

I just feel anxious. Antsy, almost.

But I don't know what I'm anxious for. To grow up? To get up? To clean up? Make up? Stop up? Go up? To finally get the song down on paper? To articulate more clearly? To hear back from committees? To hear back from him or him or her or her? To get caught up, whisked away and flying?

If this is what the doorway to my future feels like, I'm sure tired of standing in the threshold.