12-17-2015, 02:06 AM
He can be everything. A bee, a spider, a cougar, a bear. But I cannot be everything. I cannot be anything more than a doe eyed mare with four legs and an alarmingly dark coat. He can change himself, be someone he is proud to be even if only for a moment. I can only be this. I can only be simplistic and plain.
He is extraordinary.
I am ordinary.
I know not what it is like to raise a child. I imagine it is something beautiful. I tell myself I am meant to be a mother. Not the sort of mother who is convenient, or the sort of mother who means well but is short on delivery. No I am meant to be a flawless parent, with incredibly accurate parenting skills and a knack of expressing love. I am meant to have a few kids, all of whom know my true self and worship every word I speak. Sometimes I like to picture myself a worn out queen, one who has passed the torch from generation to generation, with my crowd of family surrounding as support.
That does not mean I am ready now, but surely soon… probably later… I will be ready for that.
I stand in the meadow, tail to the wind and a cool breeze tickling my neck. I am warm, the heat pouring onto my charcoal coat like fire on coal. I am not thinking of anything, really. I am enjoying the silence, feeling at peace until I hear the bristling of grass.
We haven’t spoken for awhile, but I could not forget him anyhow.
He is handsome, truly. Sometimes I feel my breath get heavy but then I remind myself that obviousness is not attractive.
Is it not sad that we live in a world that would rather scold us for honesty and reward us for hidden secrets?
After all, had society taught me a show of affection was appropriate perhaps I would not be contemplating my breathing cycle.
“It has been,” I speak though I am not sure what I sound like. A broken harp? A mangled flute? While he has become suddenly more approachable, I have fallen back into an anti-social hole. I am best at awkward interactions and over-analysed responses. A trademark of mine, surely.
He is extraordinary.
I am ordinary.
I know not what it is like to raise a child. I imagine it is something beautiful. I tell myself I am meant to be a mother. Not the sort of mother who is convenient, or the sort of mother who means well but is short on delivery. No I am meant to be a flawless parent, with incredibly accurate parenting skills and a knack of expressing love. I am meant to have a few kids, all of whom know my true self and worship every word I speak. Sometimes I like to picture myself a worn out queen, one who has passed the torch from generation to generation, with my crowd of family surrounding as support.
That does not mean I am ready now, but surely soon… probably later… I will be ready for that.
I stand in the meadow, tail to the wind and a cool breeze tickling my neck. I am warm, the heat pouring onto my charcoal coat like fire on coal. I am not thinking of anything, really. I am enjoying the silence, feeling at peace until I hear the bristling of grass.
We haven’t spoken for awhile, but I could not forget him anyhow.
He is handsome, truly. Sometimes I feel my breath get heavy but then I remind myself that obviousness is not attractive.
Is it not sad that we live in a world that would rather scold us for honesty and reward us for hidden secrets?
After all, had society taught me a show of affection was appropriate perhaps I would not be contemplating my breathing cycle.
“It has been,” I speak though I am not sure what I sound like. A broken harp? A mangled flute? While he has become suddenly more approachable, I have fallen back into an anti-social hole. I am best at awkward interactions and over-analysed responses. A trademark of mine, surely.