I’m determined.
I mean it.
I mean it when I say that I will do something that I love. That it will have meaning and be worthwhile and satisfying. I’m done with working for a paycheque. That’s not what this life means. This is not what it amounts to.
It’s too short. I don’t even like to wait this long. I’m all, “Okay Universe! Wake up! This is what I said I want. What’s taking so long??”
I just want to get going, goddamn it. Life is so short and so glorious, a blink in the blinding sun, don’t make me waste a moment more.
But I trust you. I trust you. Patience is a virtue and all that. I’m hearing you. I’ve got to help myself. But I swear to god. I’m done with making do. I want to bite into life, in big bloody chunks, and get all exultant and jubilant and not really believe my luck because I went hard out and went further than I ever imagined that I could. I want that. Like when I was a kid and it all seemed possible, like there I was walking on the moon one second, and reading minds the next, and all was spectral and possible and gorgeous and glittering, all nebulous and fabulous and absolute. Absolutely possible. Why not? Of course it was possible. Who are you to tell me, no? What do you mean? Who are you to tell me life is not like that? Not for you, maybe. Because you learned to believe the disappointed excuses of your own parents? And not to expect anything beyond the most self-limiting parameters for yourself?
Expect it all! Believe you are deserving of it. Believe that we are capable of it. Believe in it.
Then scrap it all and jump the hell in. I can’t breathe, but this is where I wanted to be all along.
