Thirteen and sitting on the couch eating chinese food from the carton she looked at me with the eyes of a priestess or prophet and told me that one day I'd be beautiful. I believed her desperately. I've waited for that day. I've waited, but believe it now only out of habit. I am ashamed of the child I am, the child I remain. An atrocity, refusing to take life and make something of it. I wake up in the middle of the night hoping I am a nightmare I dreamed up.
It will pass. Yes it will pass. Everything does. The question is will it pass and take my life with it? Will I wake up one day at seventy- three and still be waiting? Does life happen to you or do you happen to life? Who can I blame for my own unhappiness in the end but myself?
Maybe it doesn't matter. Not everyone has the courage to be. Maybe that is the simple nature of things. Tomorrow I will wake up and meet the morning, and I will go out in it and maybe this is all the life I have to look forward to, and maybe it is not so bad.
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