This about me section was deleted and rewritten about fifty times by my husband at the impossible hour of 10:19 pm on a Thursday night. I’m slightly anxious because I have to go to bed early and get up early and write before work.
Just be yourself. You’re being cliche. You’re being a tool.
Trouble is, I’ve tried on a lot of hats and walked in a lot of shoes and costumes and masks and all sorts of such regalia. There has always been something to sell or someone to impress. There have always been things that need to be hidden, things I must not be. Or else they won’t love me, or it won’t sell, or God forbid, I fail to conform to the corporate culture. After a while you forget which costume was the original one. Maybe (probably) the original one is your birthday suit, and then you’re faced with the prospect of walking out on dark stage, naked as the day you were born, and trusting that the audience (if there is one) will love you. Or at least not laugh. But most of all, trusting that even if they do, you’ll be okay. I’ll be okay.
This is me walking out on that stage. These are little flashes of old dreams and tiny new revelations, gathered up like fireflies in a jar. This is me remembering that long before I found out that all Aries liked red and all good daughters became doctors and lawyers, I loved the color purple and wanted to be a travel writer.