You want to believe in destiny. In that feeling that you know something about yourself nobody else does.* And I think half of me believes it. Half of the time. That sneaking suspicion of what I was made to do and to be.
I'd love to believe that someday I'll know. But it seems more and more to me that you either have it or you don't. You have it or you don't.
The greatest block of all is fear of being blind to my own ineptitude. The inability to smell my own stench. Mutterings behind my back, Just give it up, Meg. But - I - can't. Even if the worst my mind could possibly conceive of myself is all completely true. It can't matter whether or not it's any good, accepted, approved of. It can only matter that it's mine. To abandon it would be to abandon my own breed, and here I'd walk around as a shell.
She'd be a popular shell, probably. A trending shell. The kind of shell that people would look at and say, Goals. Because somewhere over the last three years, the world forgot how to give compliments consisting of more than one word or tiny digital images of heart eyes bulging from cat heads. But, regardless, she would not be me. And, for better or worse, those are the only cards I've been dealt, crooked features, acne and all. Anything less or more is trickery.