I don’t want to be bothered. I just want to watch thick snowflakes descend slowly onto the frozen December grass. I want to read a new book. I want to write. I want to wake up, go out, return, and eat and sleep as I please. I don’t want to sit in a room full of slack jawed peers, with my eyes darting from white bricked lecture room wall to the pale and bleak board, impatiently–in anticipation for a test that will neither dismantle or build upon my sense of self confidence. I’m socially incoherent, emotionally inept. I run the maladjusted gamut. I have been sheltered and comfortable all of my life, and I have developed a dangerous attachment to complacency. The path of least resistance has always been the path I’ve taken. My ego is fragile, and the times that it has been tested–have sent me spiraling into isolation and severe existential angst. My identity is a cloudy distant reflection, that I am not completely convinced is mine. I don’t know who or what I am. I don’t know what I want. All that I know for certain is that I don’t want to be bothered when my life is askew. While one searches for one’s future, you realize it has already found you. It is already in you. It is your past. Your parent’s past. Your grandparents. I look at life through stony inscrutable eyes. Simple eyes, one sitting slightly higher on one side of my face than the other. I watch through the back window as the yard turns from brown and gray to white. I can’t help but feel like I am the un-raked leaves of autumn being slowly buried under beautiful white–the incessant cycling of time. Where will I be when the spring sun slowly melts the sheath of ice that I’ve been buried under? Will I bloom with all the other flowers, or lay dead on the ground when summer comes brashly through? Will these eyes awake again next fall, at home next to all the withered and bare trees? I don’t want to be bothered. Leave me untouched next September; let me watch the snow fall gently over me.