The Ballerina

Photo Credit: Music Box Ballerina by Antoinette Brooks-Daw

They say we want what we can’t or don’t have.

I think there comes a time in our lives when we ALL finally concede to accept where we are and who we are in the complete sum of our totality and it usually comes with a price of destruction and fuckery.

A dream and a lie entangled like a web, a labyrinth that runs us in circles until we feel so lost and sick and tired of our own piety, pretense, and bullshit that we have no choice but to eventually fall to our knees and bleed in surrender.

Oh, but trying on the identities of others can be so much fun.

It’s like window shopping for a different life.

Only you can’t make the purchase without a return as we ALL eventually return home to the truth of who we are.

Maybe that’s why I enjoy writing and theater and ballet and all the ways I get to escape — even if only for a little while.

And then I come home unto myself and feel the warmth in the embrace of someone so familiar and true.

The prodigal daughter returned home celebrated with the slaughter of the fatted calf.

But I’ve found some identities are so much harder to shed.

The one’s we cling to even when the storms of life have ripped the rest away.

The one’s we cherish and adore but have never really belonged to us — yet still we keep them silenced and trapped.

We hold them hostages; kidnapped and suspended in time, locked behind glass. We open the lid occasionally and ask our “identity” to twirl and dance until we shut the lid once more.

And we wonder why we feel sad. Why we feel so lost. So trapped.

So damn tired of spinning and spinning when all we really want, is for someone to come sit beside us and to be still — even if for only just a little while.



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Mary Rogers Glowczwskie

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