There once was a girl who loved being alone. She loved painting, listening to music, watching the wind and listening to the operas in her head. She lived in a little adobe house in New Mexico and had two cats and a flower garden. She had her own wok and her own car. She used to get into that car and drive far out into the New Mexican desert or far up into the New Mexican mountains just because. She would roll the window down and flail her arm in the wind, the radio blaring.
She sometimes felt different, so different that she knew her life would always be a solitary life. She was often complimented on her beauty, but rarely asked on dates. She was often kind to strangers, but at the same time seemed aloof from the rest of the world. She was often admired from afar, and misconstrued from up close.
She may have felt sad at times, but she really believed that none of this quite mattered. She believed in destiny. She felt like she was young and could do anything. She wasn't all that brave, but she also wasn't afraid. She moved ever forward never stopping. She created her own world.
She believed that life was intrinsically good, that hers was intrinsically blessed, and that the rest is what you make of it.
She still believes that today. She often looks around her at her family and life, and wonders how on earth she wound up so surrounded by others. She wonders how she became the fulcrum of so much responsibility and so much love. She wonders if she is worthy, if she can handle it. She even wonders if she wants to sometimes.
She is alone and dying to be alone at the same time. She is in love and half wanting to run away. She is in the middle, in the scrimmage, and sometimes wishes she were on the sidelines.
But she still knows she is blessed. She just forgets sometimes.