And I am a fraud. A middle class, middle of the road, middle aged, middling to mild, creation. One whose dreams bounded beyond borders but have only achieved mediocrity. While heroines rose high, reality was a catalogue of muddling through. Nothing colourful or qualified, a remix of sameness, repetition of the similar; looping with no crescendo. A myriad of almosts, no climax. Dull and dowdy, the self-delusion of sophistication. I can dine with seven sets of cutlery, but have never been invited to. I am widely read, but never the right authors. Somber at the wrong times, joking at the worst. In my head I speak, in turns, with the seduction of Nin, and the wisdom of Angelou. To you, I am comedy relief. The voice of a clumsy prankster. Not the beguiling creature you had hoped. I am not who I dreamed I am. And not where I pretend to be. Yours will be a polite slow seeping boredom. The visuals, a disappointment.
But at least you will laugh. With me or at me.
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