the secret

I am fascinated, enthralled and terrified by beauty.

I lust after it like it's the finest gold. I long for it like a desperate mother searching for her missing child.

Yet, no child---or beauty---comes.

I yearn to be in it, fueled by it, overcome by it, part of it, the essence of it.

I make my effort. I do the traditions. I follow the ways of the beauty seekers before me.

But I can't follow them---at least not fully. In fact, I cannot move.

I'm beside myself in fear and drowning in an ocean of "but what if's?"

How I want to write beautiful things. How I long to let this pen be the catalyst for breathtaking poems and songs and fairy tales and stories.

But then I stop. What if it isn't beautiful? What if I spend all my time writing this piece of beauty, but unbeknownst to me, it's a monster?

Something to turn from, flee from, forget completely.

I long to be beautiful. Oh how I strive. And I do know the secret of a strikingly beautiful being and it is this: a woman at rest is a woman of beauty.

But I can't tap into that dumbfounding secret.

What if my rest turns to apathy? What if by my being at rest I'm nothing but ugly?

Mirror, Mirror, on the wall. I'm too scared to be beautiful. Too scared to fall.

Fall so short that I'm the ugly duckling; the reject. Not be enough or too much or simply forgotten.

And so I just sit and I wait and I write. Hoping for magic, divine intervention or a genie to make it all right.

Will he ever come? Will I ever be granted my deepest desire to be beautiful?

I'm too scared to answer and to comfortable to move.