I want to be an author in the year 2026. I had always wanted to since I was young. I love reading and I love writing—it seems to be the only path for me. As the years go by, I understood what being a creative meant to adults: poverty, struggle, and worthlessness. And so, I stopped writing and focused on my studies, hoping for a better and more stable future. I didn’t like it. The years continued still, and I understand yet more.

            Since learning about the dreadful reality of Adulthood wherein you are to achieve a higher education so that you may begin a professional career so that you may have accrued enough wealth for basic living (much more needed for any family-starting), I have been treading water. I don’t know how to swim nor how to stay in one spot, above the water, if I am not constantly moving, kicking and flailing my arms, my head dipping just above the surface—every breath is a threat that I might go under. So, I deign to float instead.

            When you float you can only look up into the heavens. The blue of the sky is not a solid color as you might initially determine as such. If you observe it long enough, you can perceive its immense depth, almost infinite, as it stretches back into space and your eyes give chase until they throb from the enormity of such a thing. The sun—I wish I could stare at it. I often caught glances (vision permanently damaged) and yearn for more, to gaze upon its brilliance, the very being of cosmic energy which at any point in our lives could tremble just a tad and send our world ablaze. I try not to stare as it shines on the corner of my vision, and I feel my eyeball tingle and shizzle under the strain of the sun’s rays. Sometimes, I do close my eyes and a pulsating dull color wherever the sun was at that time takes my focus for several seconds before fading into the red of my reflected flesh and blood vessel of my eyelids.

            I stay as still as I can becoming another thing of the sea. Every exhale of air slightly submerges my face in the water; every inhale lifts it out. The currents ease me along its inexplicable path, passing my limp body across thousands of hands that never drop me. The calm and soothing nicks of the water at my ears lulls me to sleep. The cold of the ocean ignored juxtaposed with the heat of the searing sun. It is familiar and easy to do nothing and let the motion of the waves guide you along. But you should never sleep, or you will drown. And drown, I nearly did.

            The Unknown and the Uncertain are scary, horrifying conceptual demons with its worse being the thought of it rather than any actuality. It is simply an idea. Familiarity, however, is not only an abstract concept but it comes concrete too. The familiarity of our homes, our families, our work, our friends, is a solace. It is, also, a nefarious presence. Familiarity tricks the afflicted with a sense of safety that preys on our memories and expectations. It is easier to fall ill to Familiarity than any other ilk. Dreams and aspirations shrink to a shape befitting of your Familiarity’s presence—it eats at choice and spits out convenience, destroys your passions for the redundancy, the thrill for the humdrum. It purports to be safe and easy, but it wrings you out, twisting it like a wet towel, draining you of all personhoods.

            Thoughts are the most delicate and coveted treasures of Familiarity. When one is suffering from Familiarity, patterns of thinking are consistent. This leads to the impeding of new thoughts and concepts. Once a person is firmly within the sphere of Familiarity, any new or challenging thought tends to bounce right off, never reaching the person. Too much and the person can be easily incense when confronted with any new, unknown information. Familiarity is floating around on the ocean—soothing and serene—but just as easily have you sink, freeze, or be eaten alive.

            I had a conversation with my partner a few months ago regarding career paths and default choices. He turned to me and said, “I don’t understand how someone can stay in the same job for years.” I looked at him, both his hands were on the steering wheel of the car, and he was looking straight ahead at the red light.

            “It’s familiar,” I answered, a few seconds later.

            He looked at me then, his brow furrowed, and replied, “Yeah, I guess. They get used to it. But wouldn’t they, I don’t know, try something new?”

            “I think most are afraid to. It’s a risk.”

            “Yeah, I mean, everything is a risk. They took a risk for that job, right?”

            “Sometimes, sure, but most people fall into their fields than actively pursue it.”

            “Huh.” We pulled up to the next light. I gazed outside at the familiar buildings, the trees, the signs, the people, and my home street road approaching. I felt the walls of my Prison of Familiarity and trembled with fright at the intense anxiety that jittered my bones from the thought of trying something new. Do I dare to?

            My jaw has been clenched more often than it is relaxed. My mind has been in limbo for a detrimentally long time and every step towards that hill ends with me taking another back. Every time I write a sentence, I second-third-fourth-fifth-guess it until it stays untouched for years or is utterly destroyed. I know I am afraid of where this might take me—somewhere nowhere—and I am distraught at attempting to pursue this precarious trade in the current landscape of our country. Financial concerns aside, I am afraid that I will not be as good at it as I thought I naturally was. Familiarity of Thought is a most dangerous challenge and myself as a good writer is one that has stayed rooted in my mind for a very long time. I don’t know what I will do with myself if I fail. Risk. It is a risk. A potential escape from these walls that govern me and air out Familiarity’s presence just enough for a new one to manifest. One, which I hope, I will be happier with.

            I am wading through the water, learning how to swim. It is fucking terrifying, and my lungs have more water than they ought to. I dry heave and cough it out. I am not yet taking the risk of easing my stillness for fear of falling under, but my legs are moving. And so are my arms. Water Angels on the surface of the ocean as I gaze up the heavens. I won’t be satisfied looking up at the heavens knowing I could’ve done something.