I want my future now.
-petulant stomp. Wagging fingers in my own face.-
I watch the women I wish I could be-you all know the ones. They’re neat, and tidy and hip. Their clothes fit without effort or diets or question. Their hair cooperates even when the humidex adds nearly 20 degrees to the summer heat. They do things-they are successful, and watching them makes me believe they aren’t even trying.
I’m jealous. And angry that nothing falls into my pocket as easily as it seems. That I have a dream, and wants, and stand facing the possibility that they won’t come true, because I am not as they. I want so badly to suck up that inherent ability to just do things, to keep it together, to appear as the adult they are.
I’ve never been that girl. I may have been the smart one, but I sure as hell was not the one you picked to get shit done, not the one that juggled jobs and families and hobbies and friends with the ease of a master acrobat. I become bewildered and misplaced.
I spent years feeling like I couldn’t-years within a void where there were no dreams, no tomorrow, no goals, no lofty thoughts. And I woke up one day to the smell and taste of wanting something, wanting more than anything. I stared at cars driving past me the other day and realized I had never driven in a convertible with the top down, and oh, how I wanted to do that.
How simple my dreams are, compared to those of the women I know with magical books being written, with films being made, with songs written and adored, creations stitched and pulled into beauty. I want to swim in that largess. I want to grow 90 arms and pull together all the threads of who I am and let them find each other, and glow warm and blue.
I want to eat the candy light at the end of a day, and know that I can be these women too. But I look nothing like them, I talk nothing like them, my dreams and eyesight aren’t necessarily filled as theirs is.
Maybe (chewing the skin around my nails, please note, NOT my nails) I really just want to find a way to be me, and move forward with a dream in my own way.
I just don’t know how. Years and years of sad quiet haven’t prepared me for the euphoria of possibility.