To Be Alive Again

by Clouds of White 97

32-year old single mother Ana lived day to day as if she only existed to pay the bills. She used to be a passionate woman but that was before life happened, broke her heart, and crushed the dreamer in her. Will she dare to dream again? And when her first love and the father of her child, Christian comes back, will she forgive?

1. Prologue

Prologue

I've always wanted to be a poet. In fact, I don't even know why I was born in this day and age. Maybe if I were English and existed in the Romantic Era then I would have been happier. Oh, how much would I give so I can linger by the lakes and embark the world of poetry with William Wordsworth.

Maybe I would have marveled all over the trees with Charles and Mary Lamb. We'd exchange ideas of how patters fit poems so perfectly. Maybe Dorothy Wordsworth would give me prompts to write a prose about. Or maybe, John Wilson would have given me critiques on my literary pieces. And when I share my poems, people would care and people would understand.

Instead, I am born in an era when poetry is no longer appreciated and only a few souls find connection with it. I am born in a time where "baby", "yeah", and "yo, motherfuckers" are what's composed of song lyrics. And people? They find it mostly appealing.

These people walk along the sidewalks dead inside, thinking of surviving the day, planning how to budget especially since pay day is still a week away, and wondering how they ended up this way: pained and passionless.

I'm one of these people.

You see, I have dreamed to be a writer. Yes, I was a writer, but with everything I have and I don't own, life taught me this: Some people just can't afford to chase their passion in life.

At 32, I thought I'd be a woman in her white suit never stopping her pace, getting interviews from information-hungry press, and going home by the end of the day to my husband and kids.

I snickered at that thought. My hands gripped my glass of wine tighter as I thought of what I am now.

At 32, I am a woman in her worn-out clothes, working as a call center representative getting cussed by customers, piles of debt right all over me, and going home to a child who always asked who her father is.

I looked at myself in the mirror. My mascara ran all over my cheeks, my hair all messed up, and my wine glass half-empty.

"Happy Birthday to you," I look at myself in the mirror. I emptied my wine the same way life has emptied me.

Thank you for reading. – Cloud