i love first posts but i also hate first posts.

i love the fact that everything’s practically a clean slate (or i’d like to imagine so), an especially rare thing in a world where our digital footprint could be dug up from ten years ago and bared to the world. (mine will probably be something stupid and not-at-all incriminating, like “strawberries and blueberries can live in harmony!1!!!!11” which, come to think of it, is in itself worthy of a blog post of its own.)

but i also hate that that little voice inside me (the same one which hassles me to pick apart conversations i’ve had in the day while i lie awake at night, and creeps around in my head and actively over-analyses even as i interact with actual. people.)  that tells me that i have to make my first post a damn masterpiece.

but maybe we don’t have to. maybe we don’t have to make ourselves out to be a masterpiece. because we already are.

so, this one (so fresh you might even hear the pen ink drying, or maybe the words still clamouring to order themselves) is for y’all,  especially fellow introverts out there, those tongue-tied souls with universes within their hearts, with feathered dreams waiting to take flight from within their rib-cage.

you keep your thoughts folded

in the velvet curtains of your mind;

your ideas, the whirlwind on an artist’s palette

bracketed by the anxious curve of

your lips.

sometimes (rarely)

you let them pirouette,

tread upward on an errant breeze;

broad brushstrokes shaping

silhouettes of castles, handcrafted, in the air.

 

but then an audience gathers

and

the curtains fall back into place;

the pall is thrown hurriedly over

the canvas of your face.

you’re sure they’ve seen them:

the stutter of an errant pencil mark,

the stammer of a note off-key,

the stumbling step of an amateur dancer

stuck in a broken musical

box.

 

take a breath.

guide the note back to your breastbone,

hear it sing

(hear yourself sing)

and remember,

you’re a masterpiece.

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