Sometimes I discover that I've, so to speak, gotten up from my place in the painting of Everyday and left the picture. It happens when I, for a long, long time, have thought that I've known exactly where I was going, without a doubt. University. Gotland. Away from home, towards him, towards a lifestyle and a spectra of opinions that would follow.
And then suddenly, an epiphany, a realization, and the world is turned on its axis. Without a reasonable, or at least visible, reason, but for some reason all the same, I'm no longer sure of what I want, and I come to discover that I don't fully trust myself anymore. Am I this...inconstant? This fic