You walked past my home. I longed for you to enter. The four massive wooden front doors of the theater enveloped by walls of striated stone. You wanted my home to be yours. The lights, the audience, the curtains, the seats all longed for you to step on stage. They waited for your gifts to be revealed. You ached to be good enough, gifted enough, graceful enough to make the cut. You feared the rejection too much. The red carpet was laid out before you in welcome. You turned away from its regal energy and hid.
Finally, once upon an opening night, you entered our sanctuary. You walked toward me as I hung neatly on the costume rack. Your fingers stroked my velvet sleeve. I waited for you to try me on. I wanted you to live inside me. I wanted you to know my glitter and glamour and sequence and gold. I wanted you to feel special inside my luxury and lace. I waited for you. I felt you desire me too. You walked away and closed the door. The room fell silent. My arms, empty.
That night, the “real worthy thespians” put me on. You wanted to be one of them. So good, the audience roars with approval. So beautiful, high society longs to be seen next to you. So successful, you no longer care what people think. So loved, the gaping hole in your heart closes tight. Instead, you sat in the audience and cried.
I hope someday you choose to come back to my jewels and be-jangles –where you can hide in cloth and character. It is never too late to rewrite the script. You, the main character, no matter what age, can stop hiding you from you.