On this grey Thursday morning, waking up with no particular place to be, Kim supposed the world was an interesting place. But it was so noisy and busy and loud. It constantly distracted her from her thoughts, her hopes, her dreams.
She wanted to be an architect, but she never made the algebra requirement. She loved acting and was doing well until the fifth audition, after which she limped home, wounded, crawling into bed, only emerging for one three-hour shift at the local restaurant where she waitressed. Then she tried being an artist, but gave up after several years, inspired by her sister’s comment upon seeing her painting entered into a regional art show that she’d make more money as a house painter. So to spite the world, and her sister, Kim apprenticed as a painter, never expecting to be certified, but she was.
But now, here she was on this grey Thursday, the morning of her thirty-third birthday, experiencing a tiredness beyond exhaustion. She was tired of speaking, breathing, wondering, evolving, not becoming, and birthdays. But most of all, she was tired of being a stranger in her own skin.
Stranger in Her Skin – Fragment #87