I climbed the mountain on a cloudy day. At the top, an old theme park waited. It was the Land of Oz. The wind tried to stop me from reaching the summit, but once at the top I would see forever. Despite the cloud's curtain, the wizard would be waiting. Trees curled in grayness with ancient branches clinging by a whisper. I have seen the shape of the wind. It looks like a titan, and blows "this is no place for you". Still I mount that summit daily looking for his wisdom.
I am a creatrix, never reaching greatness. My medium slips through my fingers always wet and muddled. I change my focus like that very same wind. My back grows heavier from time's regret. My deepest critics: the silence of a friend, the loneliness of confidence. I have screamed songs, i have played tunes, I have drawn laughs, I have loved, I have written. The wizard still shakes his head no. Everywhere my feet rest someone else is stepping.
Tell me I am arrogant, so I can show pictures. My hands clenching my ego by the neck and drowning it in the still water. Tell me it’s a lack of confidence, for I have resurrected my body from the seas of despair. Reborn, time-and-again: a scholar, a soldier, a minstrel, a lover, a painter, and a poet. Position filled, take a number. One shade remains: the color of hope, this nod from a wizard.
12 hours ago