She busily goes about her day in a rush to get somewhere. She's in a rush to get ready. She's waiting impatiently in line for her daily coffee. The crisp air envelopes her in the anticipation and pending list of expectations.
She draws in a long breath of air to fill her lungs. In her mind, she musters up a game plan on how to execute her day. She ponders as she walks along the street filled with people who are equally determined for something. The day is a blur. There are a couple memorable encounters because she is passionate to some extent.
But, really? She's still half asleep. She tries to shake herself up. Some nights, a feeling of nostalgia washes over her and her former, hidden self nudges her soul. "Wake up." "Why do you mask your capabilities in feeling and expression just to stay tough or appear competent?"
Oh, New York. A city full of dreams and ambition. A city full of diversity. In a city of these possibilities, she still dreams of walking along the pyramids. She dreams of lazily sitting at a cafe in Paris enjoying a coffee and writing in a notebook. A notebook that has character and tattered edges. Not a laptop or iPhone. Not in a hurry.
Times keep changing. Life keeps speeding up. What happened to the girl who used to read and write and feel so much?
She's hidden in the flurry of a pretension of living in today's society. Oh, the irony of life today and always. You're either a "success"or a starving artist. You're either comfortable in the gluttony of comfort, or uncomfortable in your pursuit of purpose. You're either selfish, or more inquisitive of a life that can only be lived once.
1 comment:
sounds like a lovely novel. :)
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