FIELD NOTE 3.54 - The search.

She worries about me, my mother. I think she worries that I am lost, that I don't know the name of the thing that I seek. I think she worries that I am constantly trying to outrun my shadow or forget my past. I think she worries that I won't know the way back to Virginia when the time comes.
When she asks me how I am, I can only answer, "I don't know." I. Don't. Know. These three words have become my lifeline and I cling to them every day in class when the words become too many or I venture too far into the unknown. And then they bring clarity, understanding. So why then when I say them to her do I feel as if I've somehow given the most horrible non-answer?
I thought maybe in coming here I would suddenly find all the answers. Instead I have only found only more questions, more non-answers.
I still don't know what I want but I do know that every time I am asked again the question weighs a little heavier on my chest, but still it presses out the same three words: I don't know. I don't even think I was ever even meant to know what it is I want or the reason I run from my shadows, but I know the way back is written on my skin and for the first time in a long time I am starting to enjoy the search.