(re) telling tales

I am feeling like Hans Christian Andersen's Little Match Girl. I freeze in the snow outside, light matches to peek in the windows at all those others who belong someplace in this world. Who remain cozy, happy, loved.

Another soul might see me as on the inside looking out, warm and safe, with countless blessings surrounding me that I'm refusing to see.

Who's right?

Perhaps I'm Madame Bovary sitting by the window, searching for something nameless, but settling for the touch of skin upon skin.

I don't understand how I can live with three people and feel so utterly alone.

A+