Sick of doing things I despise, just to get by.
Sick of being pushed into a corner.
Sick of never getting what I want.
Sick of watching the world fly by while I remain stationary.
Sick of not participating because I am too busy surviving.
Sick of repeating my own poor-girl manifesto as I wait for life to start.
I force my body to rise from my concrete floor-chair, joints popping, and cross to the dirty window in my apartment. Wiping a hand across it, I make a clear line through the grime and peer outside. I see the dirt under my own fingernails, but choose to look past them and see instead the endless expanse of bright blue sky, the warm rays of the June sun, a cloud shaped like an elephant, a free-spirited sparrow soaring, the vibrant life in the Manhattan street below. These things present themselves to me in slow-motion, like hearing, seeing, and tasting present themselves to a newborn. Something swells up inside of me, I feel the waves of it lapping against my rib cage, dying to be set free. Action? Intention? The feeling of being fully alive? I become dizzy with it, whatever it is. I am sweetly intoxicated. The light intensifies, colors come to life. I am cognizant of another reality, existing secretly just beneath the surface of what I thought was truth. I store all these things in my memory, to have something to pull out in the dark days to come.
Life will never be the same.
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