Sincerity is scary

Such silly, little imposters, words. A grey sky is not a grey sky. And no amount of artistry or craft can convey the experience. For you to know what is in my head, words will never suffice. They paint only a mere approximation.

It’s lonely to know that no one might ever really know me, with my ambitions, my self-admonitions, predilections and peccadillos, voracious appetites and self-restrictions. Eternal questions that nag at me even in the quiet of crickets chirping mid night.

It is not all good. I’m not indulgent in these things to construct a person who would be interesting. They are just the woven fabric of who I am. I know myself, every warp and weft. Even the imperfections that have ruined the pattern 16 rows back, and ten before that which have made this tapestry unique.

People cannot hold the immensity. They think they know who I am from looking at a swatch, or from a distant viewing. They take what they enjoy as long as it adds dimension to their own lives. I am a set of polka dots, a zig zag, perhaps even a scene captured on toile or a soft flannel. But how could I expect a woman to ever understand my more violent and crude designs when they seek refinement and accent? Or a man to ever understand the ultimate tensile strength of my will when they approach the pattern to pick out the gold threads and leave the rest behind?

When I try to explain how I feel, all I have are words. They are not enough.

How do I describe the chocolatey-brown churning monsoon flood waters rushing through arroyos that compose my mood today? Would it mean anything to them at all? Or would they rather I just be happy, light and jiggly like a 1950’s aspic? Something that gives off the appearance of sophistication while still remaining attainable?

Do they know what it costs me? To pretend every single day?

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