A Good Read

image from here

It was four years ago that I was just about eight months out of college. I was beginning my “career,” if that’s what we want to call it. With my internship about to expire, I was anxious and searching for NEXT. I was worried that I wouldn’t find the adventure I sought, the beautiful colored version of life from my dreams.

I distinctly remember writing in my journal that if my life was to be a recorded as a storybook, observed by someone else, that I sure as hell wanted it to be a good read. I wanted each chapter to represent something new, something lovely, something profound.

I wanted a heroine to emerge from the pages, a kind and brave soul – someone readers would admire for her grace and faith-filled easy trust.

If I flip through the pages of my recent times, I’m honest to say that I’m not her. I’ve been deflated, easily intimidated, pessimistic and scared. I am not the protagonist I set out to be.

I spend a lot of time these days reading blogs of gorgeous people living beautiful lives, and remembering the girl with blank pages. Maybe these story-writers have indeed found the secret of living always in a bubble of happiness and glitter. Or, maybe –more realistically- they, too have been let down. Maybe, they, too, have to choose to celebrate life with bright balloons and colored crepe.

Maybe what makes the story sing are the plot twists and the struggles that lead to the turning points.