Some people say that I'm lucky.
Some people say that because of who I am, where I am, where I've come from, what I've done, I'm lucky. I'm lucky to be here, to be breathing this air, to be living this life, to be standing on this ground, to be earning this amount of money, to be alive.
And I think in one way or another, I've been trying to prove that otherwise to people.
No, not that I want to prove that I'm unlucky. Its more that I want to prove that luck doesn't always play a part in things. I fought my way here. I clawed and I struggled and I hid and I lied and by all that is within me, I somehow pulled it through. A little worse for wear, perhaps, but I made it. And for me, that's what counts. Whether I fought the fight and won or whether I ran away, I made it. Hey, live to fight another day, isn't it?
Sometimes, I wonder whether I make my life difficult on purpose just so that I could bare all and tell all and "in your face!" my life statement to other people around me who, perhaps, doesn't know where I come from or what I've been through. Some might call it throwing a pity party. I call it showing off. After all, I am a melodramatic dramamama. I've got a reputation to live up to!
But I feel like stopping now.
Some people say that because of who I am, where I am, where I've come from, what I've done, I'm lucky. I'm lucky to be here, to be breathing this air, to be living this life, to be standing on this ground, to be earning this amount of money, to be alive.
And I think in one way or another, I've been trying to prove that otherwise to people.
No, not that I want to prove that I'm unlucky. Its more that I want to prove that luck doesn't always play a part in things. I fought my way here. I clawed and I struggled and I hid and I lied and by all that is within me, I somehow pulled it through. A little worse for wear, perhaps, but I made it. And for me, that's what counts. Whether I fought the fight and won or whether I ran away, I made it. Hey, live to fight another day, isn't it?
Sometimes, I wonder whether I make my life difficult on purpose just so that I could bare all and tell all and "in your face!" my life statement to other people around me who, perhaps, doesn't know where I come from or what I've been through. Some might call it throwing a pity party. I call it showing off. After all, I am a melodramatic dramamama. I've got a reputation to live up to!
But I feel like stopping now.
I wished that I was an insomniac. You have that much time to brood over your worries and troubles. You can do something about it in the dead of night. You can weave mysterious and wonderful solutions to your problems when everyone is sleeping. No one knows. No one can stop you. No one can do anything to upset your plans. How wonderful. How lovely.
But I am not. I am not an insomniac. My escape lies somewhere beyond the dream-encrusted doors of Lala land, where I can shut my eyes and pretend that the world doesn't exist and I don't have to deal with this kind of crap every single day. I recuperate underneath the duvet covers, limbs sprawled awkwardly while I lie and breathe into my pillow and feel the vapour of my breath envelope my face.
I'm counting down my days slowly. And they pass by a lot slower than I would like. Bring it on, new job! Scare the living bats out of me. I'll die fighting. I'll die standing. Let me face you and stare you down.
I'm tired, mi amor. I am.
I'm tired, mi amor. I am.
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