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Do I have a story to tell? No, not really, I suppose not. The profound experiences that will make my life worth listening to have just barely begun to shape my existence. I'm young; unbearably young. Here I stall in my underappreciated youth, waiting to grow older and older until one day I'll feel mature enough to sit back and pine after my lost juvenility.

I have no story. I'd like to think I have something worth reading regardless. I have my thoughts, my mind, my consummate greed, my insanity. I have my defensive sarcasm and the sympathy I am capable of offering but too embarrassed to extend. I have the little picture of myself that I store in the back of my mind, and I convince myself day after day that that is what I am; I have my arrogance. I have a beautiful smile that lingers on my lips when I laugh and glance out of the corners of my brown eyes.

Despite the confusion that currently defines my life, I am progressing and growing, and my life is therefore worth living. I cling to a sense of nobility in my genteel poverty. Though disappointment and self hatred are not likely to flee my life anytime soon, I will always think highly of the creature that I am. I will always smile, after all has been said and done and the last escapade has taken its bow, I will smile. I will look upon whatever bereavement follows my departure and cry, "my, what a show!". Whatever procession finds me, be the mourners tens or thousands, my demise will be one of a prophet: the flight of a goddess, the death of a queen.




Written 4.21.2005 3:56 AM