I am enveloped in a swirling charade, and it's hard not to just sleep away my time. I like to pretend, and go along with their charades, because their is comfort in non-confrontation. I feel like we're a Louis Vuitton trying to hide our plastic-y leather, stubborn zipper, and the fact that it was bought off of a blanket on Fifth avenue and not from the flagship store.
No one will be real with me. And the longer I am in this charade, the more the problems scream and my will to confront them cedes. I can't be the strong Cincinnati woman, only a confused and lonely girl of 18, because that is who I was when I left Napoleon. What is my role now—a parent, a peer, a friend—and can I be that?
The thunder is crashing outside, the sky vastly dark. The windows are tear-stained. I feel so stuck. And Switzerland in less than a week seems far from real.
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