When I look, I can see her. She’s there. I can see through myself to the person who I use to know. The person I was proud of. The person other people wanted to know. If I look hard enough I can see her. But if I don’t look hard, I see who she’s become. The complacent, overweight, scared and scarred girl who’s having problems becoming a woman is what’s outside. It’s troubling. Hopefully temporary. I can’t stay like this forever. I crave success. I can see it, feel it, taste it, hear it, smell it. What the fuck am I missing to get it. I need to get who I was back, but better. –RealityOfAPreachersDaughter
Everyone has a story. When that person transitions to another life, that story sometimes dies. Sometimes other people tell that story… which is why I’m determined to tell my own story. The most of my thoughts are unknown unless I choose to tell them. My “WHY” for doing what I do is only known if I let it be.
So instead of having someone else tell my story when I die, or while I’m alive, I choose to tell it myself.
I’ve been watching documentaries lately, and many of them were done after the person moved on. Sometimes I think about the genius thoughts they kept to themselves. The personal struggles that no one knew of. There’s always more. –RealityOfAPreachersDaughter