Gravity

Wednesday, 3:40 p.m., sitting on a bed stripped of sheets (because I do laundry in the middle of the afternoon), looking online for jobs.
I have an exam tonight.
And tomorrow night. And next week.
And then? ...
I am 22 years old and don't know what I am doing. I haven't known what I was doing since I was.. 13? 14? Kids are too fucking smart. I remember sitting in my room, writing in my journal, internally patting myself on the back for how pretty and awesome I was, how cool everyone thought I was. I have a very distinct memory of that.
Where the hell did that go?
I have spent so much time trying to control things. To worry, to think, to plan. None of it has done much good. I would have been better off running outside, drawing pictures, fucking finger-painting.
I have books on buddhism piled up next to my bed, and a book and CD on meditation. I've been studying psychology for the past four years and I understand depression, rumination, anxiety, fulfillment, self-efficacy. I understand the self-serving bias, and I rue the day I learned that people who are depressed actually more accurately assess their abilities. We have no self-serving bias. That's why we hate ourselves - and why we can't figure out why everyone else doesn't hate themselves too.
I don't wish I was 13 again. Thirteen-year-old me was an asshole. But I wish I could recapture that sweet, blissful ignorance, that absolute insane enjoyment of moments of pure joy when I thought my life would turn out like some fairy tale. When I thought I was the centre of the Universe, and the stars revolved around me.
Before I realized that, in fact, it is gravity pulling me - and not the other way around.