There are so many things I want to be. I blame Dr. Seuss. And greeting card companies. And movies. Disney, really. I want to do it all. God, I want to love and be loved and I want to live and I want to travel and I want to care so badly for this world but I will never have a heart big enough for it all. And I want to stare up at the stars and pretend like I know what's going on and I want to hear about the world and not feel so lost in this sea of facts and stories and happenstances. I want to be somebody. I want so many things for so many reasons.
And all there is right now is a pile of ice pop wrappers and a hedgehog. What is my life?
I was so ready for the storybook pain. My heart is prepared to be broken, I am ready for loss, but this mundane stuff, what is that? This everyday pain, knowing you didn't reach that kid and you're never going to have that chance back. Knowing that you're living on someone else's good graces instead of standing on your own two feet. Breathing and thinking and talking and existing with that little morsel of self-hatred that you can't banish because you're deathly afraid of it. And the daily reminder that you don't care enough to be somebody, that you're not going to work to make your life wonderful.
Hey, tomorrow, remember that you're beautiful. No, legit, you are beautiful and don't you dare let anyone tell you different. Remember that you can and that even if you can't, you can try and you can learn and that the only thing that was gained by sitting on your couch was a you-shaped dent in the cushion. Remember hope, that beautiful, wonderful, stupid, idiotic, great thing. Hope, which must never be left alone in the dark with your dreams and your fantasies but has to be brought out and shared because hope all alone died a long time ago. Hope breathes air. Hope speaks action. Hope lives. Hope loves.
Hope has taken the weekend off. But I didn't tell you that.
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