It’s just that everything moves so fast—and that I was 12 like YESTERDAY, squarely between traumas and completely unaware what I’d been bred for. My dreams were much more focused then…Yet here I am, succumbing to patterns, and being THIS person—whoever that is.

It’s just that other humans kept letting her down. They kept proving her right. And now she’s me. She is THIS person…someone I don’t recognize. Maybe I’ve never known myself at all. “Maybe it’s Maybelline,” or one of a hundred other ads taking up space in my brain.

It’s just that I’m angry for her—she who once trusted others to catch her when she was falling, or at least to be there so she COULD fall. And now I’m here. Now I’m THIS person, and I couldn’t tell you who that is. I don’t feel like I’m anyone. I don’t know that I’ve ever been anyone at all…

It’s just that I’m grieving parts of myself that might not have ever existed. Who’s to say any of us ever existed? Who’s to say that old oak tree leafing out in the springtime heat isn’t the boss of me? I wish it would learn to speak English. Or, maybe I should learn to speak Tree so I might know what I’m supposed to be doing right now…

It’s just that the world keeps spinning, and nothing feels real, and here I am in this moment—after having the proverbial rug ripped out from under me, yet again. Here I am, being this person—pushing forward to Who-Knows-Where Land, somehow divinely aligned to the cosmos. And how is it possible that time moves so fast when each moment feels like standing still?

It’s like everything is aflame and all the fire fighters are on furlough. And it seems we’ve been pledging allegiance to a society we were told we could get ahead of with enough grit—all the while, they plot and cheat their way to the top, crushing the rest of us beneath their big, stupid, capitalism-loving feet.

It’s just that I’ve always tried to be “good,” even to my own detriment—while the ones who make a living being “bad” continue to push ahead…continue to get elected. And awful things keep happening. And here we are, fighting against our victimhood—and yet again, fighting against each other.

It’s just that I don’t want to fight anymore.

It’s just that I’m exhausted.

It’s just that I’d rather take naps, numb out, and play pretend.

It’s just that I’d rather be dancing, or hiking, or writing something that’s worth a crap.

Yet here I am, being this person, whoever the hell that is.