You know, two years is 10 percent of the time I’ve spent on this earth, and this cornfield is a boring, lonely place. Nothing reminds me of how much I need a change of pace, but sometimes we can’t march to our own beats. Its like my feet are broken, the connection between my toes and my brain has been cut so now I step left on 1 and 3, like everyone expects of me.
Because that’s what I did for two years. Two whole years. And that’s what I expect of me too. I hate it. I loath, despise, deprecate the sobbing sack of pity and desolation I have become.When did I stop looking at the bigger picture? When did the cracks in the mirror become me? I hardly recognize myself anymore. The girl I was six months ago would spit in my direction.
“Don’t you know, girl? There is so much more to life, to the human experience. Why the hell are you wasting it crying and doing what others tell you?”
What happened to that rebel spirit?
“Honey, that’s not you. And it sure as hell will never be me.”
But the question still begs:
Why should I be concerned with me, when there are such bigger things? What am I doing here, when I could be there?