I was told–again–how lucky I am, how perfect my life is. It would be cliche for me to respond with some remark about all of it being a mirage, that there is much hollowness, much pain, much tension that might not be revealed on the surface. But not only would that be cliche, it would also be dismissed. “Sure. That’s what she thinks. Ungrateful.”
People’s lives are not paintings.
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