Texture

You don’t know me well enough to be able to feel the rich texture of the tapestry that is my life. You don’t feel the rough coarseness of the bad patches, or the light silkyness as the good patch as it slips through your fingers. You don’t have the ability to see the complexity as the threads weave into each other, some appearing and others disappearing. You can’t see the bigger picture, the beauty of the tapestry coming together that forms my whole being and you can’t see the embellishments and the details of the stitch up close. You can’t feel the grain of the paint that’s been roughly splotched on to my canvas and you can’t appreciate the fineness of the gradient as one color blends into the next. You can’t feel the damage or the rips or the wear-and-tear of my most treasured bits of my life. I covet this damage. It has made me who I am today.

What you see is a blur of my tapestry. You see it the way the world sees the Mona Lisa; a seemingly inconspicuous ugly painting blurred by the bullet-proof glass it is protected by. I am not inconspicuous. I am not insignificant. I am not a blur. I am sharp. I am powerful. I know what and who I am and I am better than you are because I am aware of myself. Because I can think. Because I have depth. Because I am flawed and I know it and I accept it and I can improve myself.

And if you can’t see that about me; then you don’t deserve me in the first place.

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