Special: Enough

God in Heaven,
please, let not my Heart
be in suffering
from the weight of being myself.


In the end, Eliac had strength and conviction. Half of my own success was being completely willing to challenge those who were foolish enough to even attempt degrading me. I do not have that when I am not surrounded by people accustomed to glimpsing it from me. The stench of truth on human lips does not make it less true outside the revels I call home.

Not called. Call.

Even if I won't be a full-time Rose, the Humans are accepted now. I, myself, was doing to others what has been done to me, thus setting me off-balance and tumbling my worlds around me.

Enough.

Sometimes I forget that I am not made, something as wonderful, unique, loyal, honest, and special as me, merely to repulse the common man. I am a Rose. Men have cowered at my feet to find favor in my heart. What do I care, then, for common men? Why should I care if they don't consider what I saw, what I felt, who I touched real?

The fact is, when I really search myself, is that I do not care. I have been letting angry opinion rule my heart.

Enough.

I am not a Great. Not Great anything. Great Poet? Perhaps, but who reads Poetry? Great Artist? There are better, and anyway, who makes money in the art business? Great Singer? A few centuries ago, I would have been sensational. They would have written my name in rituals to the heathen Gods. It is not then, it is now.  Great at being Lady-Like? Sure, but who gives a rat's ass?

I have gifts. They are useless, but they are still gifts. If my Poetry is not read, I still write it. If my heart goes unknown, it causes me pain, but it is still a good and glorious thing. If my brain occasionally (you decide if that's the right word) overloads me, it is intelligent and quick and clever, if not at what I want it to be quick and intelligent and clever for.

Too often, I miscount my own talents.

Enough.

People have hurt me and leave me. People will continue to do so. There's no power I have, no magic strong enough, to keep them at my side, inspite of the best Love, the strongest Passion, I can offer. Let them walk, blind deaf and dumb through the streets of life without my Love to shield them from their sorrows; heavy as rain.  Odd metaphors aside, it's their life, and if they fuck it up and don't want me to tell them what's wrong and how I'd fix it, then I shouldn't. Even if I have nightmares about them, even if I spend the nights crying over them when it comes to Kate Murley, Schultz, Taylor, Az--Ryan, whatever.

For all the Magic in my heart, I am not enough. Dwelling won't change their pain, just like dwelling on my own pain won't help me.

Sometimes, I think otherwise.

Enough.

Sometimes I love people who will never, ever, ever love me like I love them. It causes me tremendous pain, being different. Be that as it may, I will always, always be different. Changing into them is as unlikely as them changing into me. For now, let the goal on that end be tolerance. I'll give myself slowly to the world, one smile, one glance, one witticism at a time.

I've been blaming myself for living the Gifts God has given me.

Enough, especially, of that.




If you're wondering what brought this on?

+A little anarachy I caused today, via a blog, a courier, and cleverness.


Aside from that plus (do you get the joke? Huh? Huh?), what caused it, you ask?

My room.


I put away my books today. I hung my jewelry, my paintings, movies, everything.

And when I was leaving, I turned around and looked. Hard. For ten seconds.

Then I looked at Taylor's room. It's plain, it's expected, it's what the average nineteen-year-old would want. My room looks older (by about two thousand years), but I'm in every nook and cranny. Not just in the wand hanging from the wall, but the modernistic painting of the Dragon-slayer Finnigan too. Not just from the Nancy Drew books, but from the weird Computer games I play, the advertisement for the lovely Pirate Museum, the mermaid I made from wax, the pictures from Ernest Hemmingway's house. Shag carpeting, Golden walls, cherry-painted shelves, gold mini-tables, old-looking lamps, picture frames, books, books, more books, and oh, books. Everything in my room belongs with me, and I belong with it. If the rest of the world can't give me that acceptance, I can always make myself a home.

I can make
my own acceptance.




I forget that most of all,
so much it makes my heart turn insideout
and the ever-waiting smile fade from my human lips.

Enough, I think, of that.