Creativity that poured when it rained, and steadily trickled when she was teased by elation seemed to come to a sudden halt when forced to perform. She stood stupidly, like a child asked to sing for the neighbors after an opera worthy performance in the shower. The page gleamed white in front of her, begging for the opportunity to share her story. Strangers would quickly skim and toss her into piles of either acceptance or rejection. How could anyone possibly be asked to subject themselves to such harsh judgment, and be meaningful and analytical on top of it.
She cringed at the prospect of failure, which aspired her to attempt the most eloquent piece she had ever spun. She broke through the need for acceptance and made it her sole purpose to get the hell out of mediocrity and take what was meant for her all along.
Being just another dreamer stuck in this city of small town achievements and glass ceilings was unbecoming. Some girls were born with glitter in their veins, but not her. Oh, no. Thick red blood coursed through her body and mixed with the sweat and tears of her trials. She would have what she wanted through hard work, and then she would have more. There was no cage big enough to contain this ambition, and soon the world would know it.
It wasn't that she couldn't do it. In fact, if she wanted to, she could fly.
2 comments:
Tristan Corbiere was unknown in his time, and yet, over a century after his death, he still finds people, still has power. Perhaps we're writing to those across time with shared visions? Those divided in place but united in image? Like passing through a subway station and reading the graffiti.
Just a thought.
that last line made me grin
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