There’s not enough. It doesn’t exist.
We’ve all thought that, felt that, said that and believed that on random occasion, specific days and every time we attempt to follow our dreams.
And when we think in terms of days, we’re right. There are precious few hours to commute, work, parent, clean, shop and participate. When we rest our overtaxed heads on our feathery pillows at the end of a task-checking day, we do in fact deserve to sigh a deep sigh of contentment and completion.
Alright, content maybe, but complete? That’s the question of the month, of the year…of our lives, really.
Are we complete?
I truly love what has evolved to be my fundamental flannel onesie. Being a wife, being a mom, being a make-up artist, being what I’ve always meant to be.
But am I complete?
I have penned poetry and prose on lined tattered pages, wielding a short pencil dented with teeth marks. I’ve printed my work on dot-matrix line printers and typed on a Macbook Air.
It’s been twenty-seven years.