Perfectionism keeps me locked inside. Unable to speak. Fearful. It is most cowardly that I’m afraid of other people. Of their disapproval or, worse, their teasing laughter. In a movie the other day, a husband said to his crying and jealous wife, “We’re not in high school anymore.” She responded seriously through her tears, “We’re never out of high school.” True. How to break free? I am inspired by uncouth women. And old women who speak their minds. And women who lose weight. And women who are content – business women, housewives… it doesn’t matter. The contentment I find in others, however rare, is amazing. I do have moments of bliss. Not uninterrupted, though. There is in my nature a constant pulling and aching. A passion beneath the surface. It goes unfed – me not knowing what to feed it exactly. So I feed my stomach. And dawdle away the time. At times.
Confused at the raging between the passion and the longing to have peace and rest. Wanting to write thrilling stories and feeling mute all at once.
Did you know that I'm still incredibly jealous of you. Jealous of everything about you. But now, instead of hating you for it I admire you. I love you, and I wish so many days of my life that I could be you.
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