clear and colorful memories of being a blurry figure in the background of drastically opposing views.

“you can be anything” and “you’re not good enough” stood at center stage of my world; i always found myself just out of sight, at stage left, holding a silk rope, and waiting for my cue to close the curtains on them.

i couldn’t wait for the scene to change.

moist palms from fear induced sweat, mixed with tears disguised as laughs, so that i wouldn’t have to answer awkward questions—it evolves from “defense mechanism” to “skillset” after the first couple of decades—i’ve counted.

peripheral views are home for me; so you can imagine how equally pleasing and pitiful it was, it is, to watch them both in the spotlight of my life, all of my life; offering oscar-worthy performances in the golden, silver, wooden and earthen vessel decorated theater of my soul.

i’ve been encouraged to be,

and to do,


and anything,

except for,


and what i want…

…for as long as my memories allow me to time-travel into my yesterdays.

so, the nervous ball that i’ve conceived in the pit of my stomach as i’ve stood here, stage left, knowing that the words, “and…scene” are both inevitable, and forthcoming, is almost too much to bear.

i know how wandering souls feel:

trudging through infinite tunnels, toward tiny circles of light, that grow with each gruelingly satisfying step.

i know how the dark feels.

i know how the light feels.

just, not how i feel.

what about me?

am i,

are we,



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