It was the sadness of what could have been
Of all the almost but not quite
It was a family line of obsession with perfection
And conditional love that runs deep
It was all the unfulfilled dreams and lost ideals
Of surface happiness,
of the comfort from settling with what is certain,
of compromises and unkept promises
It was a paradox going all at once:
the growing awareness that I am truly alone,
and the irrepressible notion of a weightless existence
Oh, the bittersweet pain of restless fighting in the face of things that almost destroy me
—I think growing up means small pains after another inflicted by the realization that real life is everything but your idealization.
