It was past three. She was getting late. But the school out front closed for the day and little children filled the road. Her wreck of a car wouldn't move, she honked. And honked. The children behaved like a deaf herd of goat. Her hands shivered behind the wheel, in the mild afternoon heat. With trepidation, sweat formed between fingers. It's ironical, how she did shiver and sweat at the same time.
The constant hurry, endless demands, wore her out. Time eroded her. The impossibility of life bugged her. Yes, certainly the impossibility of it all, did the most harm. Existential anguish was undying. How most things never came home to her. She could never. Kiss ass. Never. Speak up. Be heard. Be talked about. Sometimes, she realized that she wasn't the personality type to be human. Enough. To win. To even decently lose. And not fumble.
How it was deeply troubling to keep her two feet on two boats. Or sometimes many boats. Sometimes, she would fall right into the water. And drown. Given the chance, she would rather.
Masquerade. Those fun masks. Sometimes that cover your eyes and parts of your face. She wished, she could wear one of those. And walk away. Like a gift to herself. Sort of a birthday gift.
My one regret in life is that I am not someone else. Woody Allen