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?)