The whole story

When I sit down with little more than a comforter for clothing and not so much as one cup of coffee in me I'm sure I've gotten to a point very near rock bottom.
I've felt gray and deflated so much of late that all I currently see around me seems just as drab and weak as me.

But I am not drab. Nor am I weak.
I just seem to be having the hardest time stepping away from the comforts of their disappointment.

What happened to being endless, without boundary, without limitation?
Where is all of my once whipped-cream luxury of boundless potential?
Everything felt so light and sweet and yet rich and sybaritic.
And now I have nothing more than a plastic tray with some dried out hashbrowns and a meager clump of sandy scrambled eggs.

I feel sometimes like Meg Murry. Like I have all of this older siblinghood that I don't really know what to do with and yet I want so badly to rise to the occasion and become what everyone wants of me. Nay, become more.
I want to outdo even myself and not just their expectations.

But I have no energy for such an undertaking.