Is anyone else like me? Preferring to be inside with the sunshine pouring in through the windows; it seems a bit melancholy, but this is me. Is that you too? I suppose it doesn’t entirely matter because this is about me, and as YOU read this it will then be about you.
I’d rather be on the inside looking it, peering out from behind the curtains, mysteriously, with a cat-ate-the-canary-smile, always up to no good. My inside is cool, lukewarm, always barefoot with unkempt hair. My inside holds no formalities, takes no prisoners and never ever demands a dress code. I go commando.
This is me. Emotions riding up and down as quickly and as often as the ocean makes waves. Like a fruit explosion muffin
with an assortment of nuts and a creamy middle. Living unapologetically and guilt free. SORRY NOT SORRY.
Are we all just self-fulfilling prophecies? If so this can work to our advantage, and our demise.
Things from the past come creeping up, reminding me of who I used to be. Who I wanted to be. Who I hated being. And for the first time I am forced to sit with this, this searing pain, and face it. The man in the mirror. Only that reflection knows of the dreams dreamt and the dreams lost.
I must ALLOW myself the freedom to at least entertain the thoughts. Without guilt. Without apology. My thoughts are my own and they cannot be taken away. Or put on trial. Or analyzed. Or held against me.
Do we question the caterpillar as it creates its chrysalis, cutting himself off from the world? No, we simply trust in the process. It then emerges as something brand new yet comfortably familiar; not something better, nor worse, but simply one of its own alternate beings, just as beautiful as it was before. We must also allow ourselves the grace to morph into whatever serves us-into a peasant, a bitch, a warrior, a wallflower, an aristocrat, a nobody or a somebody.
Let us be like the conductor in black coat tails, curling his fingers like a seductive lover, beckoning his consorts, drawing out their desires, their music-the orchestra takes to the stage inside of each and every one of us, nestling in to our very fibres. Only we can play the melody, because only we know the notes.