Of Beauty and Constriction

Paint a picture in your head, they said. Sit back, relax, breathe in the O2 and paint a picture in your head. Be as vivid as possible, color in the blanks, leave nothing completely white or completely black, use every color, in every created shade, in so many different schemes; be impossible, be realistic, be adventurous, be strange, but most importantly always, always be beautiful.

Even if beauty is three colors, and one opinion.

Once you’re done with that picture, frame it in someone else’s opinion because fashion is a statement, and fashion is what a designer says is fashion, even when the fashion is ridiculous on your frame, on your curves, on your eye lids, on your limbs, and on your heart. Make sure when you walk, you pull back your shoulders, hold your head high and think of murder all the while you’re walking on makeshift red carpets.

After perfecting the outer shell, no one will pay attention to the content, so you’re safe; you’re always safe when the frame is what everyone else finds ‘acceptable’. No matter the effort you put into painting that picture with the 24 shades of different colors in all the brush strokes you know, in all the shapes you can remember since you were 3, the frame my dear, the frame, the frame, the frame!

Finally, you are to spell that picture. Say it in words, say it in a voice that’s not too loud, but not too low; high enough to arouse but not high enough to annoy; play with those vocal chords like you do the strings of a violin, a cello, a guitar, strum them and make music like sirens in the ocean; place melodies at the ends of your sentences and elongate your vowels, round your O’s, dot your I’s, strike your T’s, and roll your R’s; but do it subtly so as not to disturb the vibrations and views that you are unique.

Spell that picture you painted, and if you feel yourself going out of the lines of the frame, breaking traditions taught since infancy to ‘stay within the lines’, despite every cell in your body telling you paint over the fucking walls, remain… in them.

But I tell you, my soul, my heart, my mind, my self, I tell you: spell out that your picture has pink clouds, and turquoise skies; despite the frame and its symbolism, spell out that the flowers smell like cupcakes, and the cakes taste like rain; spell out that whales swim in the skies and dive into the milky way, and the stars rest on the surface of the ocean, feeding the eyes of the romantics. Tell them all that the birds lay still, and your bones like to dance to their midnight songs wearing Cinderella shoes, in a castle made of broken promises and perfume bottles.

Because why conform to a reality that dictates Beige as the most beautiful color, when it can’t even sync itself with the rest of the rainbow?


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