What if

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What if I wrote and wrote and only eight people ever read it?

My experiences were merely a speck and unrecognizable mixed with the entire collection?

The blessings I have now will one day be longings?

My body is neither fat nor thin nor muscular nor weak?

All my mistakes were intentional?

My faults will not drive the ones I love away, rather they a part of the entire package that is me?

I don’t know all the answers?

I lean into uncertainty?

I let myself be in the moment, free of judgement about what is present and what isn’t?

I am sometimes not the kind, generous person that I strive to be?

Someone else’s pain, anger or sharp swearword in my direction is not about me?

I am a contradiction?

What if I accept all of that as enough? Not enough as in settling, but enough as in all the beauty I could have ever hoped for in my little life. What if I am exactly who I am supposed to be, with faults and misdirection?

What if?

 

 

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