Our lives are made up of fantasy and instinct; what we picture for ourselves and what we want for ourselves. How very similar they sound, but how different they really are. Although, honestly, it seems often what I pictured for myself was what I always wanted. It just looked so much prettier at the age of 15. My world was sopping with romance; romantic tragedy, romantic comedy, romantic thriller, whatever it was, it would be too beautiful to take your eyes off of it. But dust settles on life's allegory like anything else that lies complacently against the open doors we continuously fail to step out of. Did I ever once picture for myself, want for myself, to be independent, successful, strong? Was there always a man, always pain, always struggle? My stories endings were vague and as equally unattached as the meat of my stories attached themselves to everything in life I believed to not be capable of. The future me was always beautiful and young and dignified and loved, she was wanted by a single man. Life was complete. Why didn't I ever picture myself a brilliant success, happy, confident, alive with energy and passion. There was always turbulence, as a little girl could I honestly not picture anything else? I need to see my future differently, I know what I want, but still, can't see it. I want my own column in a newspaper or magazine, I want to talk about experiences and how I perceive them, in a funny, beautiful way that keeps people coming back for more. I want to be proud of what I do. I want to be off the internet and facebook and netflix and words with friends and every other god dam distraction that tears me away from challenging myself. I want to live a life of color and happiness and laughter and confidence. I want to put love second for once in my life. Although I never pictured a child, today I want one. Perhaps I never imagined I'd be alive past 30. I spent my life contemplating suicide. Maybe I need to look at myself like I was just given a second chance. I've lived four years longer than I thought I would allow myself too. I'm starting to think I'm never going to do it. Which means that for the first time in my life I believe I will live a full life, It occurs to me that I may not know how to live, I'm learning for the first time. Why am I so hard on myself? I'm seriously new to all of this. I've spent the past 30 years trying to pick the best ways to die, how I can leave romantically, tragically, beautifully. For the first time, I am eager to learn the best way to live.
Or is it more, is it genetics? I look at my mom and her mom, how very alike we all are. Are some families just more predisposed to happiness than others?
Maybe I just finally learned that movies go on past the love scenes and the musical video montages breaking everything down into the most outrageous joys and sorrows that exist in a lifetime. I never thought there was a middle, a filling. Did I never want to do the work to get there? To achieve those outrageous joys and sorrows I depended on so badly. Was it pure laziness? Fear?
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