Do not know about you guys but I feel like this at times.
The Woman who Worries Herself to Death
by Kathryn Simmonds
She wasn't robbed or raped or made a scapegoat of,
she didn't take ill-fated flights on shaky planes and
no one splashed her house in paint. Kids with hoods
and sovereign rings and hates left her alone. That twinge
she sometimes felt was just a twinge. Her fillings didn't leak.
At office dos she danced and no one laughed.
Her children didn't have disorders, fail exams, take smack.
Her husband didn't love his secretary
or get the sack. But, if you saw her fidgeting
towards the dawn, her breathing playing tricks,
a thousand what ifs snaking in a queue, you'd feel for her,
you'd wish she had something to pin her torment to.
Courtesy: The Guardian
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