Moments before my alarm goes off, I wake up and roll over.

“Good morning,” I say to her.

And she says, “Hey,” softly to me.

It’s blissful waking up in a warm bed when it’s cold outside.

The speakers on my alarm pop and National Public Radio fills the room. Israel and Palestine are at it again. Buildings have been razed in war; people are buried alive; gallons of blood are poured onto a sea of listeners who are just like me, starting their day.

“Do you want some tea or toast?” I ask.

“Sure,” she says bleary-eyed. That’s the quiet answer. The morning-speak if you will—one-word answers from the groggy.

My house in the morning has this almost pre-moving-out-of-your-folks’ feeling. The smell of my childhood permeates the furniture and floors. It smells like home. That scent of comfort. That aura of safety.

Crossing cold hardwood, I put the kettle on the stove. From the kitchen I can still hear NPR. Private investors from Wall Street are funding the presidential inauguration with $150 million.

I think to myself that it’s strange they need bailout money yet can pay for the inauguration. I can’t even pay rent past August. I want to go to graduate school. I am soon to be out of money. I applied to be a GTA—I’ll apply for loans. I’d like some governmental aid.

As I saunter back to my room I fantasize about private investors from Wall Street giving $150 million to college students for tuition and fees and thinking how it’s never going to happen.

I lie back down in bed while the kettle boils and gently tease my hand along her back.

I wish the entire day were like this. Soft sheets, like a cloud of cool.

No stress. Just calm. Soft discussions. Some about worries. Do you think I’ll make anything of myself? Do you think I’m pretty? Do you think we’re going anywhere? Should we date?

While in bed, the world seems at a distance. I can forget about war. I can forget about the kettle on the stove. I can forget about the future. I can forget just like I forgot what most of elementary school was like.

Then the worry seeps in. The day seeps in. Life seeps in. And I fight it at first. But the worry takes over. Then I’m left with the day.

And I’m stuck. Absolutely stuck in this frame of mind where I don’t feel like I can say anything other than I don’t know what my priorities will be after this summer. I graduate from college in six months. I don’t know what I’ll be doing. I don’t know how I’m going to afford to eat. Pay rent. Sleep. Shower. I don’t want to mooch off of my parents. I don’t know what I’ll be calling myself. A graduate student; a worker; a freelance writer; a musician; a bum; a soon-to-be law student.

Life is about transitions. Flow. And flowing from one phase of my life to the other is proving difficult. I crave certainty as much as every other man. And I know that I’ll come to a point where this morning will be a year ago and it will seem so far away. So I shouldn’t be so concerned, but I still am.

Looking at my worried expression, she asks me what’s wrong. And I say that it’s nothing, though we both know that’s a lie.

I lie in bed and stare at the ceiling thinking nothing for a minute with a contemplative look on my face. I’m hoping that something brilliant will creep into my brain to relieve me of my worries. I know the only thing that will relieve me of them is time, but it will just be another exchanging of time with worries.

The kettle goes off and I run into the kitchen with this strange fear that it might just blow up. I think that’s absurd.