Whispered In The Wind

Whispered In The Wind
Just a fairy blowing in the wind, singing tales to the west wind

Saturday, July 30, 2011

The Policy Of Truth

-One of the most flawed, most truthful stories, if it can be called that, that I have ever written.-

You, you used to have all the answers. You knew why the moon set and what made the water blue. You were the girl with the chin held high. Sometimes they said you were stuck up. But you were just self assured. Confidence was your stride and pride came with the territory. And why not? You had the grades, the potential to wear the pride. Doubts were held on leash, your pet insecurities with little collars, totally under control. Sometimes they might pull you through the park and you would scrape your knee, but what's a little blood?

There was the year she just tried to pull you down, taking..taking...because your heart only taught you to give. A living sacrifice is a horrible way to live, dearie. And your little chin was pulled down a few notches of air. Isn't it funny to think of notches of air? Well sometimes air is just as hard as wood, and hides delusions easier. There was that year you didn't feel pretty, like some ones old rag doll. You couldn't sing like an angel and your feet felt like some one's old hand-me-downs. Like they were bought from some store of clumsy, defective body parts. “Little feet, damage is fine as long as they are cheap..have any in stock?” The teacher said you were the only one struggling with the math in a pool of D's and C's. The B on your report card was a blood stain. You watched the boy, the one with the personality like a tarnished pearl you wanted to clean. You said you had no more respect for him. His face fell for the first time and you felt a bitter, empty surge of control of people's hearts and you didn't want it. An ice queen was born inside of you..

The next year was spent thawing, restoring your hope in humanity. You over-dramatize everything, child. You never did have any great tragedy, it just felt like it. You closed yourself because its so very hard to respect people. But because your greatest fear is to end up without pieces of your heart. It's an over sized heart and you protect it like a ferocious dog. I'm afraid you will bite someone one day for touching it, darling. You grew up and you stop hurting..you relearned the meaning of love. Or learned it for the first time. Love is to serve, to care about others more than yourself. But you care a lot about yourself.

Why? Why not? You fought to be who you are, to feel like sometimes you ARE pretty and that you aren't hand-me-downs. You fought to have a voice like an angel, but you found it through ink. It isn't all that beautiful but it has the hope of something angelic. But more importantly you learned sometimes it isn't about the fighting. About the faith that your life isn't yours to control. You work your hardest and then you let go. But you never were good at that. You know humanity is worth it, even though they are black and tarnished. Even though you are black and tarnished.

Sometimes the very people who have insulted you, you find are the most beautiful. Because despite whatever mean things they say, parts of them open, and you see who they really are. Just as broken as the rest of us. She told you about her past life, her brother put up for adoption and her marriage and wasn't it strange? An entire perspective changed. You always did love the broken, because some of the most beautiful things start broken. A mosaic of a broken heart that you watch turn into art.

You still fight so hard to be worth something. To paint yourself in gold and be looked at like art. You try to wrap yourself in profoundness, drink meaning so that humanity will know your name. You ought to have learned by know to let go, to just let life unfold. But you always were the folder, and unfolding is something mysterious and unsettling to you. Doesn't it it create paper cuts?

But then doesn't life produce paper cuts? I guess we just have to suck our thumbs, apply bandages and move on? One day they might call you whimsy because you never could stay in one place, always off to chase the fairies. It's not because you don't see what is in front of you, but rather you see more in front of you. As an artist you feel more because you chose to be more. Or because you feel more, you must be more? You have to be more than you are now. But the secret to be happy is to be content. Well maybe for some. For you, you need to learn how to fly. And one day when you learn to fly, you can just sit down on a rocking chair and smile. And why they ask you why you aren't flying every where, I just bet, you will say “I know how to fly, I want to learn how to sit still now.” Because you did always have all the answers, by the end.

"I want warm summer nights, to lie in a hammock, staring at the stars, telling you stories. "

"I want warm summer nights, to lie in a hammock, staring at the stars, telling you stories. "
"When asked not to make waves, I just smiled and said, don't worry this is just a ripple"