Is this what it means to be inspired? If I look at myself in the mirror and see things I have not seen before, does that mean that life is somehow more vibrant? If I told you that I loved you,
would you agree?
I ask the questions without knowing the answers, I sign up for the fight without knowing who I'm against. I breathe in and out quickly because there isn't time in life to hesitate; there isn't time to rethink. There is no need. The only concern I have at this particular moment is being alive, so I let Coldplay serenade me and I think about the signs I have seen that convince me there is something greater to life than simply being alive. Who am I, and what significance do I have on the world?
The light settles itself on me, filling some areas and avoiding others, and I think about how the man in that movie wasn't so terribly attractive anyway, only real. And real means something. If you can find me someone in the world who is real, I will love them. Not in this heartbreaking, delicate way, but in the way you might love someone who once made you see the world in a different manner.
So the young man helped along the old one, but it was not a sympathetic sort of assistance. He was only doing his job, and as I sat and watched them I was only doing mine. I saw this picture they created, the stark contrast of tan and pale, perfection and decay, life and death. I saw it, and I did not know which one looked better. I did not know which one I would prefer, were I given the choice. But we are not given the choice, only the possible ways to deal with the one that has been made for us, so I will never have to make the decision. Some days I am grateful.
I wonder why the moments when I am most beautiful are the ones where I am alone. Maybe I am just not meant to be captured in film, maybe that is some of the beauty that I lose. Being in the moment, I mean. Maybe when we try to capture it, we ruin it. Maybe I've no idea what it means to really live and love, but as long as I am taking steps in some direction I consider it progress. I look back on who I have been and I wonder who I will be; I wonder if my parents are proud of the girl they have raised-- this girl that is somewhere between child and adult, young lady and woman. I am a lady, finally, after years of being a girl. I am too naive to be a woman but I have seen too much to still be the child I was. I have let too many thoughts run through me, I have let too many forbidden desires play themselves out in my life, and I have loved far more carelessly than any intelligent woman would do.
I am the in-between, but I have written too many paragraphes about these things to pretend that this will be any different. I am too weary to pretend that I am still read, but I am not too weary that I do not write. And perhaps, one day, when someone as unexpected as he was stumbles across this, they will think "what a strange, strange girl", and they would be right in all respects but one. And one day maybe this person would see me at a party in a black dress that's currently hanging on my closet door, blowing with the gust of my fan, and they would remember all of the things I have written and how terribly I have exposed myself to imperfect strangers. "For shame", they could say if they were older, or maybe just "oh, her". Her is someone who is an artist and a dreamer, but she is a terrible artist and all of her dreams are in sepiatone. You have the right to be disappointed, so do I. But I'm not.
If you were expecting me to put it down in black and white terms for you, I am sorry to let you down.
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