Each day seems longer than the last. Those words on a page are more frightening than the thought itself. It is said that people who are clinically insane feel the
hours of a day go by agonizingly slow, while the days, weeks, months, and years swiftly roll out behind them. Maybe I should get checked out. Someone once told me that time creeps up on all of us
at some point, and to live in such a way that you wouldn’t ever want to go back to change a thing, but I never really gave it a second thought. She said it was almost as if one day she was 15 years
old without a care in the world, and then blinked, opening her eyes to 50 lit candles on her birthday cake.
I’m approaching the age of 24. I feel like a worn down, old woman. I sometimes wonder if the choices I’ve made have somehow thrown me off of the path that I was meant for, if there is such a thing. And like an old woman, I act like I’m set in my ways. My awful, hypocritical, dramatic, irrational ways. I’m overly sensitive. I bitch about practically everything. I don’t know how to admit when I’m wrong. I give too much of myself to people who prove to be undeserving, and treat people who love me like they are not to be trusted. Pathetic, but true.
But I am not some decrepit, bitter hag at the end of her rope. I am a young woman who has dreams, ambitions, and a lot of love to give. I’ve been through hell and back with the grace of a ballerina. I want to rule the world and think I would be damn good at it if given the opportunity. I have found real love and want, so desperately, to hold onto it. So, why do I let these seemingly insignificant feelings stand in my way? I can carry the metaphorical weight of an elephant on my shoulders and stand steadfast, holding my ground with a smile on my face. But place a feather on top of the elephant, and the whole thing will come crashing down. I’ve learned that it’s not easy to breathe, let alone think clearly, with an elephant sitting on your chest.
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