i see the lines on my hands and i remember back to all of the things that they’ve done. the people they’ve touched. the times they’ve been my only companion. the lines run deep now, and the ones that don’t are all the signs of my aging skin. i remember being a kid. chewing my dirty nails. using my hands for fingerpainting. what did i think i would be back then? a ballerina. a veterenarian. a mother. a teacher. a singer. a writer.

i guess i’ve always been a dreamer. it’s just the whole -making them come true- part that i’ve always had a problem with. and at this stage in my life, i don’t even think i have dreams. i don’t really have many people around here anymore. i’m quiet and subdued. and i remember why i wanted to leave here in the first place. and then sometimes things seem right…and i remember why i call it home.

i hear the jet planes flying over my house at night. it seems like they go on forever if you really pay attention and listen long enough. you get lost in the thought of that. someone is up there flying in the sky while you’re sitting in bed…dreaming about things that will probably never happen for you. the things you’ve always thought you were good enough for, now seem like a joke. you see those movies where the good person gets what they deserve in the end. a better life, someone to love, everything falling into place.

that has never happened for me. i’ve never felt completely at ease with where i am in my life. it’s like i missed a step a long time ago and now i’ve spent every moment in my life a little off beat. and i can’t catch up to where i’m supposed to be. and that fucking sucks. and the worst part is that i can’t even describe how i feel about anything. everyone has a shitty life. people in haiti are dying. dead. suffering. and all around me people are making bad decisions and paying for the consequences and i feel like i have to take care of everyone else first. donate my time, because that’s what i feel like is RIGHT for me to do. it’s my responsibility to fix everyone…or at least temporarily make them feel better while i can. and never tell them that I AM feeling terrible too. because no one wants to hear my stupid complaining in times like these.

so i sit. and i see my hands. holding these books. soaking in all these lines from all the years of work and regret and loss. pretty rough around the edges. but they’re my hands. and they don’t hold much. but i hope that someday they will.