Sometimes I feel that I am in a psychic jail, paying off the debts of my lifeâ€™s imperfections. I am cast upon a small rock island, a fruitless raft tossed by oceanâ€™s waves, always pushing, always threatening to throw me onto the shoreâ€™s cliffs.
I hope for mercy and penance in return for the deep debts I seem to be in.
In debt to life, the burden of each day occasionally seems too much; I am unable to clarify, to state clearly to my self where I am, how I got here, and whom I owe.
My parents, my teachers, family, friends, colleagues, neighbors…who else?
Who else? My own imaginations of how they imagined I could be, would be, should be, sometimes at odds with how I am. How I am, in my own terms to myself? – sometimes whispering, at other times, screeching.
Do I not live a life equal to that which they hoped I could; do I not let them be the persons that they willed and will; did their own debts and pain-filled penances spill over onto me, onto my future, its hopes and would-beâ€™s and would have beenâ€™s?
Would I know what to do, where to go, if ever I could satisfy the debts of soul and spirit and lifeâ€™s accumulations?