You know that story; the one where at the end, the protagonist realizes that what they have is what they wanted all along. I wish that was my story.
I have this overwhelming fear that this is all there is.
I have this overwhelming fear that I will never get what I want because I can’t figure out what I want.
My “this”, I know it’s not that bad. I could dissect it for you and it would sound pretty damn good. I would leave out the bad parts and try to be optimistic and you’d think “what the fuck is she complaining about?”
But “this”, it’s my existence. It’s my story, and lately it seems like that book you really wanted to read but can’t seem to pick up. You know it might improve, but it doesn’t always seem worth the paper it’s written on.
(Have I beaten this metaphor to death yet?)
2 thoughts on “this”
My best to you. I’m reminded of the time I sought out therapy, but once there I only managed to tell the therapist the good parts of my life, leaving out the rest. Three sessions and I did myself no favors.
Anyway, I wish you well.
I think the same thing myself. Is this all there is?
I like many aspects of my life. After 40+ years, I’m more content but occasionally I feel like that con man who wants “One more big haul” before retirement.
That may not make sense but I sometimes wonder.
I’m too ambitious sometimes, I’m guessing.