Kinda like trainspotting choose life monologue.
Telling a secret. No matter what’s the plan the psychologist choses for your therapy, it always contains: if not loving at least accepting yourself, and in order to do it, look in the mirror, tell yourself nice things, do.not.ever.try. to throw up on yourself but smile and like the image you see.
When little all you get from strangers and not-so-stranger-relatives why so strange is how pretty you are, for the lucky one, although as a person there is nothing to had been done or achieved looking pretty even as a child. The still luckier ones gets the, wow, so sweet so interesting looking statements – still based purely on looks inherited from parents. And the rest? Well, there are the ones having an uhm special, hey she doesnt even look like a child look – bad or not, the parents still are totally in love anyways.
So, growing up being the lucky one, being pretty (and weird) already grown up by age still being pretty – or at least they say so- still being weird I’m stuck at the momentum of why on earth I’m pretty and weird and totally out of place but proud of it. Why I rebel?
Why I seek happiness? A different kind of self proudness? Friendships that last forever? Happiness that lasts forever? Being the one and only? Yes, that’s a hard one. One cannot be one and only for everyone. In all terms and in all characters. And I’m a rebel anyways.
I take those selfies pure and unretouched with no make up. Only some grading here and there. I feel lonely sometimes. These days. I’ve messed up my marathon, sometimes I even think my life too. But I look in the mirror and keep telling myself -not- how cool is to live in my own skin. Not. always. never. whatever.
I am thankful. I am hurt. I cry inside and out and I smile with 32 teeth. I eat godiva as a alternative intake of iron my body misses so much, I go for a run to take a selfie instead of looking at the mirror. Yes, I do that.
I talk to some and stopped talking to one. I keep pushing and I stopped pretending to go pro. I still go pro as a fun though, easier, wiser, makes me happier kinda way, so I will never go pro in reality, my dreams only. Don’t take myself serious really. Had my take on going serious, believing in future as a plan. Keep finding excuses not to go for a run while I cannot wait more than anything to run the day. Every day.
Look in the mirror.
For me, it’s alternative choice once again.
I take selfies. Running ones. Like a mirror.
I take chocolate instead of B12 and iron as a pill. Like pills.
I eat spinach and drink beet root unmeasurably. Like pill supplements.
I cry out loud. Like I can’t act normal and adultish.
I sometime believe that I’m loved, like specially loved by one.
I suck at marathon. Like running 3:14 sucks. But it does suck.
I say goodbye when it hurts. Real life out of comfort-zone situations just don’t feel cathartic.
I still want to run a good marathon.
I still believe in destiny.
I cannot stand still.
Or sit still.
Don’t look in the mirror first thing in the morning.
I miss morning coffee first thing in the morning.
And I run.
And I love.
And take selfies to log my days, better than looking at the mirror, really.
And I write instead of writing to reach out for contact.