skeletal dreams

I feel as though everything is crumbling before my eyes. This is not fiction. I can feel it all breaking away under my feet but I turn my head away from it all, so then it doesn't make this all real. My mother is away, I don't know where she is and I can't help her even though it's all I want to do. My friends are in another state, all together, supporting one another. I can't tell them what's happening to me, I'm too proud, too ashamed. 'You have it all,' they say. I smile to myself but it turns to a cry when I know it's not true. Writing is the only thing that makes sense to me. And my boyfriend. Without him I think I would have fallen apart already. 'Stop thinking about it,' my head tells me, but all I want to do is cry. I'm in a city I don't love. I think I made a terrible decision to study journalism; I can't speak to strangers the way I can write to strangers. I never wanted to become a television journalist, but was it a stupid idea to study something where the basis is outgoingness and the ability to communicate to the world through spoken words? Can I graduate and find my ideal job of working for a meaningful magazine? Or am I just lying to myself. When I write everything seems to make sense. I feel I have a purpose. But what if I can't live off my writing? I feel stuck, trapped on the edge of a cliff, the ground breaking before me and I can't get away. I know I'm going to fall.