I try to fit myself to other people’s patterns. I bulge out the sides or over the top. I am drab in the background waiting for attention. I want to cut myself down to size, to make it happen, to be something recognizable though not necessarily myself.
I am annoyed that I have lost all the certainty of youth and am now in the long preparation for dull, spinsterish, middle age. I can no longer make up my mind. I do not know what the issue is or what the issues are and I certainly haven’t the energy to find out.
I am annoyed with those who do not love me enough and yet am contemptuous of those who do. Surely no-one could care for this small time human catastrophe in the making with possiblity that may never to be fully realised..?
I haven’t the strength to be the centre of my universe but I’m not letting anyone else in either. That throne can sit empty while I sink into the couch and let the outside sounds of life wash over me.
I will be contemptuous of you though I could never be you or be like you. I simply haven’t the courage. I hide my life away under the sofa cushions and in the thousands of boxes. The boxes are my lives. They are occasional scribblings and things half tried.
Every full moon, or perhaps even more, I am fed up with myself. My bones scream for change and I promise, oh I promise. And it takes five minutes of knowing me to know that I never deliver.