That silly girl

Shouldn't I be perfect, little bird?

Shouldn't my life reflect the fortune of my circumstances? Shouldn't the privilege and opportunity bestowed upon me manifest as flawlessness in my being?

Why do I find myself congealed around myself, folding inward like origami with too many creases? Why am I gathering in knots and twisting sinew, my body a map of tensions that shouldn't exist in such comfort? Why does my mind curl into itself despite everything?

How have I become this labyrinth of anxieties when the path before me was cleared of obstacles?

What explains this discord between my external blessings and internal turmoil?

Shouldn't I be perfect, little bird?

Shouldn't these advantages have shaped me into something flawless? Shouldn't I stand as testament to what prosperity can create when applied to human clay?

Why has the sculptor's hand failed to form symmetry from such fine material?

Why am I so disjointed, as though my parts don't quite fit together properly? Why am I distorted like a reflection in troubled water and stretched out of shape like clay pulled too thin? What force has warped me when everything around me seems designed for harmony? How have I become this mosaic of misaligned pieces despite the careful arrangement of my world?

I don't want a resolution. Life in self pity is very comfortable. There's a certain sweetness in melancholy that becomes addictive, a familiar embrace I've grown accustomed to wearing.

But i also want to be happy. Somewhere beneath these layers of contemplative sadness lies a yearning for lightness I cannot ignore.