There is a certain terror that goes along with saying “My life is up to me.” It is scary to realize there’s no magic, you can’t just wait around, no one can really rescue you, and you have to do something. Not knowing what you want to do with your life—or not at least having some ideas about what to do next—is a defense against that terror. It is a resistance to admitting that the possibilities are not endless. It is a way of pretending that now doesn’t matter. Being confused about choices is nothing more than hoping that maybe there is a way to get through life without taking charge. Rather than take charge, some hope someone would come along, pick them and carry them off in a predetermined direction. It happens all the time. Maybe they would hop aboard with a group of friends or with some girlfriend. They'd go their way for a while and be distracted from their life a bit longer. But I knew how that would play out. They’d wake up one day in a far-off land, working in a job or living in a place that had nothing at all to do with them.
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