Is it love or work?
The workless, unemployed statistic, down trodden by debt overload. I am young on the verge of old. Any minute now, my stress will appear on my face in finely lined wrinkles. I will call it wisdom. The mistakes of tripping on one's own decisions.
Decisions, decisions. Collapsed in mortal fear and despair. An emptiness that is becoming of my sullen face. This is not what I wanted my life to be. My OCD is driving me mad. I have no control and I sell myself everyday to people who want to parcel me out. Some buy the passion, others buy the sex, some, though infrequent buy my brain. A tickle.
To fancy yet nothing that will come. A waiting and stillness. Silence for the first time. Risks, choices, love, life, money, and what? What else? what else? what else? what else? what else?
I am letting my fingers talk. I need more discipline. More. More. More. Discipline. Focus. I need to live my own life and not be jealous of others. That green monster envy lives in me somewhere and I try to expel her. There is not enough room for the two of us. Someone someday will figure this out. That I am worth it. Or so I have to tell myself. The stories we tell ourselves-- how fascinating it is to create our reality. Fractions of identity, looking for the whole pieces.
If someone could just notice. Please. To sincerely see what is in me and make a move. But my struggle is wrapped up in your struggle and we will not be set free until we find our way out of the maze.
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