I live in a fantasy, in a world where my writing means something. It’s depressing, how easily I can see it—how visible the line is between my ego and my worth. It’s a bitter spectrum I pray to turn over, I pray to be a matter of perspective rather than truth. Alas, I wake each day more unrealized than the previous—less annoying than the next.
I often wonder if I would be better suited for a world away—a generation or two. And I hold firmly to it, my muse of wisteria vines and old cottages; of flapper dresses and champagne—and dance by myself in my fantasy, spinning farther and farther away from the line of ego, the line of worth, in hopes I’ll no longer see it. And then, for once, I’ll be blissful as I await the convergence of my dreams and truth.