End of Your Map

You wake early, it's dark still, your body unsure where it finds itself. A hint of light breathes itself across the mountains and in through your windows, you are not yet sure how to answer them. Your to-do list blisters and burns like a fire at the other end of the room, reluctant to leave you alone, and you squeeze your eyes tightly to ignore it. A manuscript lies closer, whispering to you of potential, breathes air into your lungs until you feel light, hopeful. Your maths aren't adding up, and you know it. 

Outside, the fields are washed in golden yellows, in September sun, the mountain shrugging into flecks of red, you ache with a melancholy that can only appear in emptiness, in missing. The answer eludes you, again, again, you are always a step behind, a step aside, you are always falling off at the shoulder, he says why make plans for a future we do not know we will have, and the idea looks different now than when we were in our 20s, because now it's possible we mean it. If you leave only one thing behind you, do you want it to be perfectly executed paper work, do you want it to be timely answered emails? 

Or do you want it to be fireworks?