The older I get, the more unfinished I feel. Amorphous and moving through space, I am never quite still. I’m waiting to harden like a boiled egg, but it isn’t taking. I go to school, I change my major. I go to work, I change my mind. I go to another school, another job, another city and state; in six months I am a newly-unemployed new grad (again), and ready to head back where I came from. There don’t seem to be bounds to my search. I am something, but what?
