Once there lived a girl afraid to call herself a woman. She grew older, not quite old yet but not as young as she once was. She struggled to find herself, to find a career, to find a purpose.
She found herself working at a shop and felt ashamed. To be a cashier, to take money for goods and answer asinine questions and to have no greater purpose than this, at the place where she spent a lot of her time. To be a background figure in the days of others. To spend time not helping, not healing, not hearing, not seeing.
She feared that this would be her life. That she would grow into being a woman, to grow older in truth, and remain working in a shop with no greater purpose. To lose what little creativity she had left, to have the lacking within her grow to untold proportions, to sleep and work and exist and do nothing more.
The story goes one of two ways: she does. She works as a cashier, and then maybe as something else, and drifts from job to job without finding her purpose. She spends the majority of her time existing rather than living. She forgets how to write except rarely, the creativity and dreams and lies and loves fade, and it is what it is: a life, not lived.
Or she doesn’t. She struggles to find her way out of this hole that she’s in, finds a purpose, finds her stride, and breaks out of the monotony and mundane nature of her life at present, and learns how to rejoice. It may take time. Time is hard. But time is all we have until we don’t.