Honest Monsters. At first you knew what you needed to figure out; get a job, make rent, be a good (or at least better) person. Be happy. Find a companion. Be safe. We all have a laundry list in our head of what being a person is supposed to look like.
And yet here we are. Turns out, being a human is a lot like being a shapeshifter. There is no you, really. There are countless opinions hurtled at you about what you're supposed to be, about your responsibilities to the world, about what you should be doing, and you're a lot softer bodied than you thought.
Sometimes you are defiant, in sleek armor that you send volleying back, because you do know your place in the world, you do know what needs to be done. But lately, that armor seems a little small, too snug to fit correctly. It's been attacked from every angle, with every problem greater and smaller than yours etched in. You don't know how to help, you don't know how to be good. You thought you did, but the evidence seems evenly distributed in every direction. You're just here, and so is everything else.
How many plot twists is this stupid story supposed to take? You used to know what you liked. The smell of old books. Stretching a rubber band to that exact right tension. Eating ice cream sandwiches in the carwash. You've spent so much time not really knowing *what* to believe that you're not sure you have the mechanisms to know *how* to believe something.
I've been sitting with a big net trying to catch as many of these critters as I can when they jump up, and for the most part, they laugh at me. I can't tell you how to catch them, and now that I have a few, I couldn't really tell you how to take care of them. For now, I'm just trying to be sincere, to be honest about how little I know, and break them off bits of my ice cream sandwiches.