We’re made of steel. Yet we bend and remain bent.
Strong, effectual hands of Schweitzer-esque friends lovingly attempt to straighten our twisted feelings, while sledgehammer swinging, crowbar wielding, pugilists howl in our already deafened ears about kitchens and heat and cooks who can’t stand either.
We’re made of stained glass. Rainbow filtered light gracefully dancing through us, aimed at some mystical sun’s chosen targets; while needle thick shafts of pure light occasionally and unintentionally escape from gaps left in the brittle people putty, which holds our coloured beauty in dysfunctional adobe frames.
Shiny targets for rock throwing vandals, objects adored by blind worshippers, and aides for much needed reflection to searching, seeking souls.
We’re internal, eternal children. Last picked-first picked, for competing carnivorous teams by magically anointed captains.
Hearts pounding, guts churning, palms sweating, hoping, praying to be included, recognized, affirmed and wanted; hating that our strengths allow us to be snatched from beloved community we shared mere seconds before, loathing that worst fears realized leave us standing last and alone as the charity choice.
Emotions raging, we run, we hide, red faced - while never moving a revealing muscle; doubting our worth for one stupid-score-forgotten-the-next-day-game of someone’s lame idea.
We’re angels. Seeking ethereal healing for others; believing while denying we believe. Messengers of comfort, watching over mortals, assigned by fate, personified answers to cries for help, volunteers and guardians of the weakest, the hurting, the crippled, and the disheartened.
We’re devils. Endlessly, indulgently grasping, coveting, maneuvering for more; patronizingly generous toward out-of-focus-folk, blurred by the brilliance of our glory; suffocating, wounding, clamoring and climbing over others - hell bent on ascending - others be damned.
We’re writers. Scribbling indistinguishable, epiphanic, early morning
revelations in worn notebooks, through ink bleeding kleenex, or on the backs of receipts.
Eager fingers making pensive stokes on clacking keys: type, delete, delete, type, pause, read, cut, paste, delete. Yearning to compose the breath taking, tear jerking, heart wrenching, laugh out loud, you gotta read this masterpiece of our decade’s Emerson-Harper Lee-Hemmingway-Faulkner-Haley-Morrison-Twain-like wordsmith.
Pouring our souls upon virtual pages, vulnerable as we dare, longing to touch, inspire, move, and reach the hearts and minds of a generation.
We dodge the ham fisted thinly veiled marginalizing jabs at our gifts with an intensity equaled only by our resoluteness to remain righteously humble and cognizant that we are the sum of what others have given us.
Take heart brave, fragile, creative soul. You are invincible until you decide otherwise. Pain is your friend. Hurt is your fuel. Challenges are the winds propelling your sails, wafting you to previously unknown places of inspiration where scores of others - often beset with the same disheartening wounds - will welcome you, encourage you, and lovingly brace you to continue your quest.
To the kindly curious, yes I drew the picture.