I remember looking in mirrors from my earliest childhood and hating what I see. That has not changed. I've felt out of place, always on the outside looking in. Again that has not changed. I have asked myself for years, who am I and what is my place in this world? I know I am supposed to be here for a reason, but even after sixty years, I don't have a clue. I know factory life and corporate life are both outside of my purvue. It's always, "You're good, but not good enough". Am I ever going to be good enough for anything? Anyone?
I have sought answers and only found more questions. I have made many close and some extremely close, friends in the writer community. I know now that I can write, but to what avail? I want to make a change, to do something. Who am I, what am I supposed to do? If only I really know. Maybe someday