One day, I think that the suitcases of worry I carry with me will pop open and spill all over the floor. So, with this concern, I lock them up tight, take a deep breath, and hope that somebody will help me carry them.

So I move on. And wait, and worry, and hope that somebody will validate me.

I’m a poor excuse for a hero, I admit. I’m not the best at anything, and I’m in no condition to save anybody; I can’t even save myself.

In that case, I guess I’ll have to settle for tapping at this keyboard with the ridiculous hope that something meaningful will come to me someday. My fingers must be convinced, if irrationally, that something significant lies inside, or I think they would give up altogether.

Until then, I’ll keep waiting.

And worrying.

And hoping that somebody will save me.