My life is filled with barely's. From the very beginning of my childhood, from the very first second they told me I was “special” I have felt the compulsive need to prove them right. I fight against stereotypes and will cling to my beautiful idiosyncracies till my last breath is ripped from my body because they are the only things that keep me from falling into an endless dark pit of cliches. I cannot bear to think about getting lost in the in-betweens, in a sea of faces that has no end, in a group of strangers who will never say hello to me. I love anonymity for it's beautiful silences but it's jokes are a little nasty and hit a bit too close to home.
I am barely special. Barely smart. Barely loving. Barely funny. Barely pretty. Barely me. My life is a series of one liners and coffee dates, of broken down metaphors for an honest living and digging through the muck underneath my shoes trying to find the gold they promised would be at the end of the rainbow. People think that I have it all together only when they are not close enough to see the tangles in my hair and the cuts on my lip. I bleed out obscurity and I breathe in unique thoughts, and yet still I am caught in barely's. Barely there. Barely trying. Barely living.