Matches

I'm kind of experiencing one of those ghastly moments when I realize that I've wasted a lot of time. As in--I'm twenty-three and I've been waiting for something indefinable since I was like nineteen, but I haven't gotten there. And at this rate and speed, I won't. You know that book, The Little Matchgirl? It's super sad. This poor little girl that is selling matches in the snow and she gets so cold that she lights one and when she lights it, she sees a room full of food. Then her match burns out and the scene disappears. She lights another one and sees a warm coat or something. And then, not caring about the cost and not thinking about how she'll have to return home to her father that beats her because she didn't earn any money--she lights all the rest of the matches. And for one or two moments the blaze warms her and she sees a whole room of people who are happy to see her and love her. Then she dies in the snow. That's the book. No joke. It's that whole idea of being on the outside looking in. And she didn't choose it, it was just her life. For some reason, in this moment, reflecting, I feel a bit like the matchgirl myself. But I've chosen it. You know? I think everyone is a bit of a matchgirl or matchboy sometimes. But more often than not, I think we're standing there with our one match lit and feeling cold because we chose to be.