She’s sick of everyone talking to her about her potential.
Potential to do what? To be who you want her to be, to be what everyone expects her to be, to be greater than she wants to be? Go ahead, give her an earful about how she would excel greatly at things she’s good at, but has no interest in. Tell her that she can do big things that have never even crossed her mind. Tell her that if she chooses to do otherwise, her future will unwind, a tight coil of gold into a pile of rust. If you don’t do something you hate for the rest of your life, the rest of your life will crumble to dust. Be smart about it, they said. Don’t waste time, they said. But it’s not their time to waste, so what else do they expect?
The future to her is like an open wound. All there is to do is wait until it heals or suffers from infection. Simply waiting, anxious, with no clear direction. Almost like the future everyone wants to shove down her throat, she’s already infected. They’ve tainted her dreams and hopes with shaking heads and visions of empty houses, street livin’, dead ass broke, because her idea of an ideal future is nothing to them but a tightly knotted rope. She’s suffering, but with their expectations, it’s her screams they’re muffling.
So she smiles and waves, waves and smiles. Maybe they’ll believe her if she looks like she’s got nothing more to say, nothing more to hide… But she’s giving up; she’s dying inside.
Everytime she opens her mouth to speak of her dreams, they press the mute button & tell her to be thankful for the warning in advance.
She tells herself that she could prove them wrong if they’d give her a chance.