Don’t tell me the glories of love. I’m sure it’s lovely. I’m sure it’s an epic and swoon worthy experience. It must be lovely to drown in your own ego. But it’s not for me…you see I don’t define myself through another. I’ve accepted my role, not as heroine with stars and swallows drowning out the harsh tune of reality. No, I’ll never be the spritely, effervescent manic prixie dream girl. I do not posses natural grace, or perfectly timed spontaneity that is equal parts charming and disarming. I don’t have fine enough bone structure for that role.
I’m not built to be some dizzy little love-lorn ingenue, nor a shrew or femme-fatale. I am neither Kate or Bianca. No I’m the fool.
Entrenched but detached. I listen but I am rarely heard. Of course I talk but that doesn’t mean I say anything of great import. But every now and then I have a moment of discernable clarity and profundity … of course you may contest that summary of my character, but god only knows who will see this … or care. But that’s another can of worms.
Fools. Caustic and critical, bumbling but bewitched with life…I stand in awe of the dance steps people memorize. The games they play. I never learned the rules so I don’t often play. Never immersed. Always two steps behind or ahead depending on the tempo. It’s impossible for me to keep time with others. I’ve tried. It doesn’t work. One of us is always going to be too fast. Pardon the cliche but I … oh you know.
Eccentric. Esoteric. Idocyncratic.
A total mess … beset by the need to wonder.
Sighful. Wistful. Wishful.
Life is too short not to be foolish. Wouldn’t you say?