When I was younger, in my early twenties, I was exceedingly unhappy. At some point, I began to pray that I would die young, around thirty. I am no longer that miserable, but neither am I exceedingly vivacious for life. Now, I’m turning thirty this week. I’m not where I wanted to be by this age, but I’m not sure I ever had a real idea of who that was, of who I should be. Now, I do have a dream, becoming a writer, and I’m so much happier for it, yet that dream seems so far away and effervescent.
For Now
Tale Told 