Between dreams

“Oh how I detest moments such as this

When I find no happiness, save dishonest bliss.

Wailing,  I throw myself into the abyss;

Unwilling to go on, for true love I miss.”


I will never be younger than I am now, my breasts may never be fuller…

I feel like I should be out there, being alive and vibrant and yet, the only strength I have I find in bed. When I try to leave it feels like I could die and so here I lie writing— writing rubbish poems. Then the waves of doubt and all my fears return. I ask “Do I have the talent, or any talent for that matter?” “Will I ever be an accomplished writer?” “Am I good enough?” They swirl around in my head and rise above all else, they crush my dreams; all I am left with is immense grief and a pining for my childhood. Aching for the years when I was alive and never afraid to dream, when life was full of endless possibilities. Then I was the queen of the universe, all the world was at my feet and in the palm of my hand. Now it seems I am but a slave to the universe; stripped of ambition with nought save one plea; that life be kind to me.

I ask myself how one can be so afraid of mediocrity and yet too frightened to grasp greatness. My fear turns to apathy, my apathy to hopelessness— life is drudging and perhaps my existence is consequential rather than purposeful.

The preacher said to me “Everything has a purpose of which God is aware. Trust in Him dear child”. Nothing’s worked for me so far so I might as well try his way. Trust does not come easily to me I must admit, but I’ll try. In moments of despair I whisper the occasional “God is in control”. When consoling people I say “Everything will be alright”, and if that is so for them, then perhaps it will be the same for me. I chant my mantras, until one day I believe them.

I will write, I will act, I will be a psychologist, I’ll be a masseuse or physiotherapist, I’ll own a spa, own a farm, travel the world and be important. Because that’s what we want to be isn’t it— to be useful to someone or people, to be useful for something.

I have seen myself everywhere and nowhere. I see myself somewhere I’m meant to be and I smile. Not because things will turn out exactly as I want them to (hell! I may not even do all the things I want to), but because no matter how they turn out I will be alright.

And so here I am. I am hopeful. I will never be younger and my breasts will never be fuller (except in the event of a pregnancy). I lie in bed writing; and while I write my rubbish poems, the possibilities are endless…

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