Do you know what you are doing here? Does my face read trauma? Is my existential crisis poking through? I rub back and forth on the blisters I’ve created in my hands from ripping skin with yellow county teeth littered with small cavities I cannot fix. Can you tell that I think I’ve fucked up too much to be who I think I am? I’m surviving. I’m ready to give up. While pictures of degrees and bought homes are being posted I know that this will not be me. No home owning. No marriage. No kids. No car. I’m the antithesis to the world. Mail hasn’t come for weeks because I changed my address only to punk out which is what I do to people, to myself. No moving to Jackson, Wyoming for the Tetons and so I blame it on the Tetons this life I’ve shaped to be just another grain of sand. And so I distract, I run. The same loop every day until I know every turn feeling like Marcel Proust navigating Swann’s Way and notice small round leaves that have caught autumn early and are brilliant red and yellow shimmering near the soil. This is what I notice everyday—the darkness, the parts of winter, and I feel the pain of others because that is my own pain. And I ask the universe to lift me up now and I pray that I can trust what I’m doing here, that I can convey that my trauma is only small red leaves in a forest of green that lives and breathes. I don’t know what I’m doing here, and neither does anyone else.