It is unfair how much we feel. Our minds are too full, our hearts too sad. We seek solace and happiness with too much desperation. We feel too lucky to be handed scraps of it. We settle for less. We compromise. And we wait. In hope, in pain, in frustration, with reckless anticipation. All this goes on in some form of a cycle until we are no longer there to churn the mills anymore.
I live in my mind. Its the only place I’m honest with myself. People are exhausting. Too hard to figure out. Too random while being the same. I trust sparingly. Anyone could turn around and kill you. No one has their pain and past written across their faces. And no one really tells you what they make of it. Men are hard. Where they draw the line between respecting and objectifying women is a haze. I have a deep mistrust of men. I would rather put up with the petty bickering of women than get to understand men. I am deeply cynical about life. I feel we have to work so hard to get a fraction of what we want that when we achieve a semblance of success, there is only relief and exhaustion to be felt. I feel survival is too much work and not rewarding enough.
And yet I believe in fairy-tale endings. I want a grand event in my life which would take up all my senses and command all my attention. I want to be swept away in a whirlwind chance meeting that has no boundaries. I want to discover myself and all that I am capable of. I want the world, so I know what I would do with it. I want love to be fleeting and hard, impossible and reckless.
So, I live in hope. That one day, I will do justice to my mind that refuses to listen. I hope I find that spark that I am always looking for. I hope life looks at me with some doubt, only to ultimately concede, ‘Nah, she needs it.’