September 27, 2011
By Jessica Magro SILVER, West Kingston, Rhode Island
Jessica Magro SILVER, West Kingston, Rhode Island
5 articles 0 photos 0 comments

Imagine. You are walking. A big building looms in the distance. Cold stone. Tall pillars. Sweeping arches. Few windows. Solid. An ornate weather vain perched on top. Pointing at you. Telling you where to go. But you know the way. You almost live here. It’s grandeur is not intimidating. You stop to admire the path. Stone, like the building. Words engraved beneath your feet. Words engraved on your heart. Life is the Art of creating your own masterpiece… Sing… These words have taken you far. Along the path. In your life. That is why you are here, after all. You turn to the statue beside you. A collection of twists, turns, colors. Seemingly random. Rusted metal unsure of what it wants to be. Without a real form. Different from every angle. Different for all that behold it. Not like you. You know what you are. You are you. Who else would you be?
Imagine pulling back the tall wooden door. The interior is a warm red, with deep mahogany floors. Soft oriental rugs welcome your feet. Colorful paintings dazzle your eyes. A woman sitting at a small desk smiles tenderly at you. You turn the corner to a long hallway. There is a large painting on the opposite wall. It is a beautiful rendition of an ocean on a calm day. It is as beautiful and calm as you feel. Oddly, as you get closer you feel less and less calm. Each pound of your feet marks a new, stronger tremor of nervousness. As you journey through the hallway you remember why you are here, where you are going. The calm ocean of your demeanor merely hides the tension ahead.
Imagine climbing a staircase, one almost tall enough to take you to the stars. That is where you’re aiming, after all. Your emotions climb steeply in you as you climb the steep staircase. Thoughts are racing through your head, fighting to take control. This is perhaps the most difficult climb of your life. There is a small landing at the top of the staircase, decorated with neatly framed flyers. They are packaged reminders of your past, remembrance of your lives. Your worries pause, and you get lost in one flyer, remembering how you loved that being a lovesick bird. You loved the blue feathers. But today you are not a bird, you are… who are you again?
Imagine reaching a small, blue room, filled to the brim with busy people applying somewhat silly amounts of makeup, fixing otherworldly hairdos, repeating phrases that to an outsider wouldn’t make much sense. They are your friends, your family, your advocates, your everything... they are more you than you. Immediate you dive right in, twisting your hair into an elaborate style, gluing on false eyelashes, perfecting your new cheeks. You look at the wall of mirrors on your side and a different person stares back at you, one that twists and turns as and when you do. Who is that person, the one with the fake face, the one that still has my eyes - is it I, who am I, what is me? You suddenly run to the bathroom, a small, dark, blue room whose paint is chipping in places, overcome by waves of nausea and nerves. You involuntarily purge what little you have in your stomach, and in that, you purge your nerves for an icy focus. You speed to a cramped black space filled with twenty or so people, one more odd looking than the next, but you don’t bump into them, you know this place by heart. You stand and you wait as you look without seeing at the place you are going next.

Imagine hundreds of dark spheres. All turned towards you. Waiting. Hoping. Expecting. Experiencing. You are everyone. Yet you are no one. You are not you. You are whomever you choose to be. Whoever you need to be.

Imagine lights. You are blinded. Yet you finally see.

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