It has the ability to become a narrator of life; the capability of allowing it to be truly lived instead of just survived.
It’s much easier to see the faults in something, or someone, than to admit I have a barrage of my own.
I put the pressure of perfection into each to-do and end up feeling hopeless when the reality of imperfection comes through.
It feels as if the weight is inescapable and the darkness beneath it, blinding. Slowly, it’s suffocating you.
No matter how hard we try to make others happy in the way we speak or how we act, we continue to feel lonely and unloved.
It stung. I had a deep yearning to be accepted, to feel like I belonged, to know that I was part of a family forever.