I’m not what people think. I’m not good or positive or responsible or noble. I’m not happy. I am not just a –anything –THAT is the only fire that kindles my passion.
Every day, I walk the world in intentional numbness. I fog emotion so as to dampen disappointment. I blur reality to handle it. I am not alive. I am not real. My optimism persists in the hope of a future change or an alternate reality.
In a someday.
Yet every day I grow older and fatter and less cognizant. The world of my imagination will never be.
The world is only taxes and dishes and children. The world is not mine to seize anymore; it’s those children’s. I’ve waited too long for me.
All that’s me is a memory, and a mom in a minivan.
(I’m unplugging for a bit. I’ll post the poetry stuff, for sure; not certain what else, besides.)