I wish I was more than who I am to this day. I wish that I did not have to wish to be any one but me. Yet, I wish upon stars and times and fortune cookies. I wish upon the wish bone every year. I wish upon every time I see 11:11, no matter how repetitive my wish may be. Why do I wish? Why do I have to? Where did my life go and why did I lose it in the first place? What has happened to the red-head girl with a constant smile upon her freckled face. What has happen to the contagious laughter and the bittersweet tears that followed. Why is it a chase to find me when I am me every day, every moment? Or have I never known myself at all? So many questions, so many changes. So many wishes and no hope they will ever come true. Maybe that is who I am, just a simple wisher. Maybe I lived my life wishing instead of doing. How hopeless does that sound? I never wanted to be who I am today. I wanted to inspire. I wanted to guide, to help. I thought I could. But now I do not think I am strong enough to help anyone, not even myself. I run to sad songs. I run towards emotions that hurt me, that kill me, that rip my happiness. Sounds idiotic? I guess you can say it is. I do not think so. I love feeling. I must feel. I crave feeling.
We all feel. Maybe not physically, but most definitely emotionally. And when I cannot feel happiness, or anger, or wonder of fear, I feel sadness. Because I would rather feel than be nothing. So I am, therefore, nothing but a red head of misery. Because I feel nothing else by myself.
How unbelievably sad. I wish I was more.
