My friend Monique went to a psychic, the same one who told me my books would be published as a matter of fact, and she was told that she ‘wasn’t from here.’ As in, this was her first time on this earth. Sometimes, I feel like that. Like, I don’t belong here. There are days when I feel like my soul is the pocket of a comfy coat with a hole in it. Nice and together on the outside, incomplete and inherently flawed on the inside. I daydream about being stopped on the street by a psychic and them saying, ‘Hey, this dream you have…don’t give up. This writing thing, it’s for real.” But who knows, maybe that’s not the case and maybe I have nothing to say that’s worth being said.
If you hold your hands in a tight fist in front of your body you will see the mind and soul of the majority of the population. Safe, secure, generally together. And the best part is that this is fine for them. They don’t need and/or want anything more. Now, untangle your hands and pull them back into a large circle, stretching your fingers as wide as they’ll go. That’s me. I’m…more. Everything is more for me. I feel more, see more, love more, hate more, hurt more, and want more. I want enough hours in the day to write proposals, be a mom and a wife, and still have time to be me. As it is, one of those will have to go. Guess who the only expendable one on that list is? Yep. Me.