Making Waves

I’m kicking my feet in a shallow pond and hoping I reach the ocean. My grand designs for life and the people who can help me achieve them are not listening to sea right now. Slim to none chance of splashing the lifeguard to get to a CEO. If I could use something other than salt water to show people who I am. I’d like to fly through the clouds instead, and watch them gaze up from a rubber dinghy at my golden wings and marvel at my ability to end suffering- or something cool like that.

I’m the one marooned on the dinghy and no mythical creature is going to deem me worthy of rescuing. Starving myself because I’ve been convinced that I may get somewhere in life by being thin and trying to look young, but the back of my mind is screaming at me for being so stupid. I could start a convincing debate about how looks get you somewhere and how I’m unlucky in that respect but for some reason I must’ve been slightly more attractive to sweaty, powerful men when I was skinny and young, the thought of which makes me feel sick to my stomach, but now that I’m rounded, older and unavailable the doors are all shut and I can’t help but come to that perverted conclusion that being myself is not working.

I’d steal a day or two to live the dream life of knowing exactly what to do in every situation and which direction to point my life boat to find my happy island, if only it were possible. I hate the sound of the waves, they put me to sleep and I can’t walk on the water to get to the destination faster, some jerk stole my paddle!


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