Dear anyone,
Everyone seems to think I have wasted my potential. Thirty long years of non stop writing, and I have wasted my potential. People bore me so much, dear anyone. How easy it is for them to narrate my story on my behalf. I cook all day. Have found great pleasure and an almost calm in mixing ingredients. I enjoy the smells. Perhaps a traditional life is all I am searching for, at this stage in my life. I understand people, you see. I can see right through them. This scares me. And it makes them cling to me, for they know I can see them. I accept my demons. This gives them permission to accept theirs. but they bore me. Everyone around me seem to think that I lived as a coward. I should have been on stage, my veins protruding, my immense hatred for you soothing everybody’s hatred for someone. Or something. My body swallowing the theatre with such ease, it almost scares me. And yet, those around me allow themselves to narrate my life. What I could have been. you live in the past, my brother repeats. Don’t we all? I run towards something. And my veins straddle my cowardice as they protrude on stage. Swallowing everybody else’s hatred. For someone or something. Why didn’t you see me? Why did you leave me alone to fight my way midst those who do nothing but narrate the story I should have lived? I have become a good cook. I clean all day, the way I always have. I sit calmly in the corner as my veins protrude, and my hatred for you relieves the audience of their own hatred. For someone or something. I remember when the thought of your weight crushing me was all I needed to write. To live. But now I cook. And I clean all day. Quietly sitting in the corner, for they insist I have wasted my potential. But you see, I wanted simple things. And I runaway from my ability to see people. They cling to me harder. My demons heal them. My protruding veins as I pour my hatred onto you, soothes the shame they feel from their own hatred. For someone or something. I am ashamed to tell you, that, now, you bore me too. The thought of your weight crushing me makes me reach for my Muscerol nymber 2. I do live in the past. For there, I used to feel. And I cradle my cowardice with understanding. I stand in the middle of the stage. A sigh of relief. I write with my veins. My hatred Protruding from my fingers. I create a love story in which I am the only heroine. A short story in which my demons politely smile at you as I get ready to wipe you from my stage, with one quick stroke. Later, much later, I will deal with the recurring thought of your weight crushing me. For now, you bore me, just like all those who claim I have wasted my potential.
AR 
EN