Will it ever become clear? The future so fuzzy, seemingly covered in fur, dander, some swarthy material that cloaks my eyes from seeing anything real. Reality is a beacon, calling to me, promising sanity, but I'm blind. What I want is ambiguous, refusing to adhere to me, refusing my graces. Deplorable. For want of this I would do most anything. I'm drawn in, like a vampire to neck; I want to sink into this, make it my own. I've never felt this way, bottomless, uncertain. I've never been unclaimed. In this world I've always belonged, always had a label. And much to my chagrin I've embraced this role, become the woman I am, the woman so many people wanted me to be. For so long I've been this that now my shell is staid, cold, locked tight against my flesh, flesh now dying to get out. I ache quietly, I am pitiful in a subtle way. I draw myself in deep, tucking my knees to my chest and saying nothing of what I would really like to say, really like to do. Cowardly courtly love leaves much to be desired. I am no beggars wife, no tale from Canterbury. And yet I've been nunnified, or so it seems, brought low in my desires and made to be ashamed.
But I'm not ashamed. For want of this I would do most anything. For want of it I would tell you the things I'd do. Most anything.
You see, anything is possible.
It's so unclear. So blurred, fuzzy, redundant. Opaque, like the blobby tears that still fill your eyes when you wake on sad mornings. The sun in your vision, the glint of moonlight over water. These things are beautiful, but they blind us. The cold fear takes hold of us each, every one, falling out of favor. Addictions so predictable, I give them up, one by one, I give up the things I called my own. The things that owned me.
I want to lock myself tight into this world. I want a purpose, a goal, to be filled with the knowledge that I'm purposeful, that I can be of use to something. Myself, perhaps. A greater good beyond the outside appearance. My hair with glint of red, beguiling green eyes, a friendly smile – all the world's my stage but what will we DO with that stage? What will we say? For want of this I would do…anything.
I don't want to live my life saying 'what might have been if I only I had been'. To be scared, to be hurt, is a fate worse than death. Never again will I walk in the world with head hung low. Bruised, battered; no, this will not occur. For self-worth is easier to come by than we think. I looked in the mirror. Those who falter, those who quake, they are but shadows lying low in a horizon of doubt. I prefer to be a cloud. Seamless and floating, a representation of all things light. To be sure, eventually I would break and crack and pour my opulence down like a spring rain, but even then it would be light. The heavy burden of self-doubt goes away, and it stays away. I move gracefully, cumulus-like and airy. A blinding whirr and heaviness is gone.