The truth is, I don't.
I have nothing together.
I'm ripped at the seams half of the time, while the other half I'm scrambling for composure and grasping at the slippery straws of 'what to do next.' What an ugly cliché I have become.
I'm the soon-to-be leader, the journalist. The friend, the comforter. The daughter, the role model. It's a hard feat, all of it. I'm forever riding this equivocating seesaw of success and mediocrity, dreadfully straddling the fatal line of average and noteworthy.
I don't want to fall into the margins.
Smear into the pages.
Become a footnote in this wondrous journey.
New York said 'yes' to me tonight and I had to say 'no.' The words felt like razor blades coming out of my mouth. I had it. But poor timing and concrete circumstances snatched it away.
My hands have grown weary of constantly turning doorknobs; opening the doors all on my own. Sleepless nights. Writing. Editing. Coffee. Competing against a former self.
It's hard doing it on your own. I've worked on suppressing the fragment inside that calls out in the middle of the night for a caress, a word of encouragement, fingers to intertwine my own with. But it can't lie dormant forever. I can't be the only thing sustaining myself, and I hate admitting that for fear of weakness.
So, maybe I need to become a little more undone.
Or just 'get it together.'