It was never a love that could be reigned in. Never so easy. Because we were too young to appreciate its gravity, its inevitability. But it was always palpable. They all saw it before we did. It’s never too late; just misjudged timing. What he has now is a mockery of us. But our time will come. Just as the moon will always be illuminated by the sun. I believe. I’m not that big a fool; I’m a bigger one. And I’m ok with it. Because unconditional love comes like a lunar eclipse. It will only be too late if we let it go. Again. Not this time.
They don’t know their power. And they don’t want me to show them how forceful they can be. That more than being angry, they can be a force unexpected. I wish many things for them. In vain. They don’t want to climb ladders, but I want them to know how many other ways they can rise. And how necessary it is for them to lift their expectations, their hopes, their efforts. That their gifts should not go to waste. But they are mired in complacency, not seeing the month for the day ahead. They’d prefer to ravel themselves in the cyclone of he-said-then-she-said. And I lose power with each failed attempt to empower them. The future is not in their hands, for they have washed them–sanitized them–of all ownership. My hands are filthy.
The skin I’m in today is not the same as it was five years ago. Each drop of dead cells is like a reincarnation of self. I am more comfortable in my skin now than I ever was in the last ten years. I spent those years trying to change who I was instead of just being who I am. Amidst the noise of others’ expectations, my own were never met. And I felt as if I wore a costume, disguised as who I thought I was supposed to be–who I was expected to be. Only I loathed the skin I was in; I did not know who I was. As I exfoliate my former self, I feel the liberation that comes with being unconcerned with whether anyone else likes me, as long as I can recognize myself in the mirror and love what I see.