I wonder how exhausting it is to portray a squeaky clean spiritual image. I couldn’t do it. Could you?
I don’t want those fragile, unattainable expectations haunting me in every interaction I have. I don’t want to put on a show; I don’t have the energy for it.
I’m not an “Everything is beautiful…be kind at all times” type of gal.
I am sweet, warm and compassionate, but I’m also cunning, wicked and immature. If I don’t like you, I won’t pretend that I do.
I’m a writer, not a guru. I report on life; I don’t dictate how one should live it.
Writers (most, not all) are the epitome of human frailty. We are insecure. We hide behind the pen, scribbling ourselves within a veil of words, to avoid true intimacy. We have memories an elephant would be jealous of, and hoard grudges that could fill the oceans.
I don’t want to be some girl who floats into the room with shiny hair and a glowing image to boot; I’m too old and tired for that.
So, if we cross paths, the only expectation you should have is that I’ll be myself with no desire to impress or please you. ~Rebecca