We’ll still have a song to sing.

A long walk home, riddled with regret / Uncommonly comfortable, but still I believe / That in time I think I'll see just what's been weighing down on me / An unearthy void collapsed, exposing what was trapped / To release this serendipitous design / The smell of smoke, the evening sky was proof / Belated conversation saturate anticipation for the answers that simply won't come / But not I, I won't ask / Forget my place amongst the grass / The leaves and the trees remember me / And in my naivety it might be seen / The pail has leaks and even if you put all your water into it you end up with nothing left to drink / The well has gone dry, and I with it /  Oh, someday she'll be gone / Oh, someday she'll be gone / Oh, someday she'll be gone / Oh, someday she'll be gone / Sing softly, bring me to the lake / Sing softly, sing me to the lake

"His Hands Matched His Tongue" by the Dear Hunter

There's this feeling of futility. Maybe I'm just a terrible adult. Or maybe I just have no clue what I'm doing or what I even want to be doing anymore. But is it even about what I want? Of course not. It never was. But then there's that fear. The familiar fear of messing up. I'm just tired. Of not knowing and being frightened of what I don't know. Of wondering if I'm going to fail. I want to trust Him. But it's not even Him I don't trust, it's me.