well, everything was fine

     Everything was fine in her world. The life started going smoothly, finally, for the first time in twenty five years. She had a flat to live in, a boyfriend to share all the fun with, some friends to share all the worries with. The family, which downsized to two people, was also okay — the mum was working and the brother was going to work in the sea. The job had never been better and the weather and the circumstances had never been so inspiring.

     Except that they weren’t.

     While things went well, she wasn’t happy, as if there was an important piece missing. She had no idea what that was. She had friends, nice colleagues and a favourite job, a loving boyfriend and a pretty normal family, they had a huge dog and the flat was really nice. She could read books and learn new stuff and study other languages and go up the career ladder. More than enough to feel fine, isn’t it?

     It wasn’t.

     And each time she started thinking about that — she felt some guilt — the feeling she wasn’t used to. Not cause that was disrespectful to her friends and boyfriend and family and colleagues and books — but because a lot of people lived their lives much worse than she did. And because she didn’t think about them at all, focusing completely on what she hadn’t got in life — and desperately trying to keep up with the luckiest and most hardworking children of this world, the richest ones, the smartest ones — the best ones. And the tragedy was that she was utterly ordinary, extremely usual, she was an image of the word “casual” when we use it talking about clothes.

     And she had no fucking idea how to change that.