Up.

Standard

Still.
Why do the things we think will make us feel better never satisfy?
I am really so entirely fed up with my own expectations,
as minimal and pathetically meager as they are,
that I could literally vomit.

Why do we idealize a nonexistent reality and completely miss
the flawed but beautiful gifts we are given?

I wish I knew.

And am I as guilty of missing what never existed as anyone?
Maybe. But some things were real.

And it isn’t fair to compare what is now . . .
but I miss secrets and stories to share and hands to hold
and eyes that aren’t afraid to meet and minds that want to know
everything.
But that sounds like childhood. And I am no longer a child.
Of course, I certainly never experienced anything so free when I was a kid.
I learned to be free. The hard way.
And now I feel like something is asking me to pack up all those lessons I learned.

But I’m afraid, because I am notoriously bad at UNpacking. lol.

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