Journey to Your Deepest Self

Dream of Beauty

“There aren’t very many things better than playing drums with your friends while watching beautiful women dance,” he said. If I had come to the dance, would I have been counted among the beauties? What if I was clumsy, out of step? What if I was the only one who didn’t know the dance? What if everyone could see I was the blemish Upon their collective face? “You’re pretty. You can stay. But your friend, she’s gonna have to go,” he said. What if I didn’t mind that I didn’t know? And what if I was able to laugh and smile and love myself anyway? Would all of the dancers and all of the drummers and all of the others wish I hadn’t come? Would they push me out, lock me out, hate me together? “So what if you ain’t good looking. At least you’re faithful,” he said. It’s happened before, you see- many times. To me and to others. Right in the middle of un- self consciously enjoying my self- being singled out as the bad one, the wrong one, the one who shouldn’t be here. The mistake. “Wipe that smile of your face! You look like a fruit fly on a banana,” he said. Most of me is so very afraid of it happening again. And the rest of me has been protecting. But in order for it not to happen I have to believe in myself- however I am- clumsy or graceful, ugly or beautiful. Somehow, I am supposed to know that I am beautiful. Know. It. “You’re not graceful enough to be a dancer”, she said “You’re too ugly to be here”, he said “You’re too big,” he said “Everyone, except her,” he said How can I find this knowing? I’ve lived my whole life pretending I didn’t need that knowing. That beauty was something too far out of reach to even want. It’s like the sun. Like believing you can reach out and touch the sun. Be on the sun. Be the sun. Shining. Warming. Inspiring. Coaxing growth. Being adored and welcomed. Everyday. This is my challenge, my mission. And it’s do or die. I won’t I can’t go on living as the ghost of what might have been. And I have no sense of a path. And all the kind words of others that float to me now on a breeze or flutter down to me from a high cliff, echoing, I have cast away as waste- can’t be trusted can’t be believed...
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