A story I tell myself about myself
A story about a girl who escapes into brightness. Freedom.
She creates and people find meaning and beauty in her work. But that is just an added bonus. She has learned not to place much value on the opinions of others.
When she is not creating, she walks through her garden, hikes a new trail, or drives to the beach to feel the cool water tickle her toes. Sometimes she spends the day at the record store, chatting with the owner about what’s new in the shop that week. She lets him tell her about an obscure artist or a limited edition reprint. He opens her world to new artists and styles she doesn’t know about. She appreciates this. It’s nice to not have to be an expert at everything.
In the evenings, she reads on her couch, a jazz record playing softly in the living room. She cooks dinner most nights, using the tomatoes and peppers from her garden when she can, but sometimes she asks her husband “Do you want to take me out tonight?” He always says yes.
So she puts on her favorite jeans and a shirt she bought at the thrift store that she loves. The color brings out the flecks of gold in her otherwise grey eyes.
They go to one of their usual restaurants, or maybe a new one that just opened, and they sit across the table looking at each other, trying to remember how it all started. He asks about her day, she tells him all she’s been working on and the things that frustrate her. She asks him just to listen, not to fix it. He nods and smiles. He’s been here before.
Soon she talks her way into resolution. She will fix the thing that frustrates her, knowing that next week there will be a new thing. This is okay. This is normal.
He tells her about his day. They talk about their upcoming trip, which leads them to talk about all the things they have to look forward to together. She is happy.
That night, they linger in bed, feeling each other’s closeness, listening to the rhythmic breathing of the other. Soon she goes to sleep. He stays up, reading or watching television or doing some other thing while he waits for the hour hand to hit eleven.
In the morning, the dawn light gently wakes her. Birds chirp softly and a breeze wanders in through the window, offering a cool respite from the warmth of their bed. She steps into her slippers and pads to the kitchen for a coffee. She stares outside as she waits for the water to whistle, and she thinks of all the things she wants to create, all the lives she wants to live. But she is happy with this life she has built for herself. Coffee made, she sits at her desk and writes, just for a few hours.
She wonders what the people will say about this new work. Simply because she is curious. She will not change her work for anyone. She cannot. It is in her soul, her deepest self that demands to escape the confines of her body through pen, brush, or any other method of creation she happens to be using in that moment. And it is always beautiful.