I am the subject of all art forms. I am in paintings of the most famous artists, songs of the greatest vocalists, and occasionally statues as well. I reside in poetry, words masterfully reconstructed by those who wield better the same language that everybody else also uses daily.
Yet here I am, speaking directly to you. I speak directly with my own voice. The words must roll off my own tongue, for I have seen depictions of myself throughout the years and none of them truly reflect me. At least, that is what I believe, and if I believe it, so too it must be true.
I have a time constraint. I beg of you, then—hear me.
My whole face blushes, but I am not in love. My cheeks are flushed with the blood boiling in my veins, from the grievances I cannot speak of when I stand under the greatest spotlight of the universe. Regrets and misereres, everyone has them, but they pound the loudest in the beat of my own heart when I know I will forever be their only audience. My brothers and sisters, their faces redden with the same rage, the same anguish, and they blush in the same shade of red. “They are so in love,” your brethren say—but they are not, and I am not. Who are we to love? Who are we to love?
I wear the brightest colors, and then I dance in them. I wear the colors no one else dares, and I dance to the music your brethren make. They are the paintings of my frame, the music of my name. I spin myself round and round to the sound of these works, but as you chant along to the prose and poetry, and as you hum along to the compositions made by anyone else but me, you never see me. Me, the star of the show! Me, the centerpiece of these their obsession! It is not me that is attractive; it is their skill. You envy their skill, you envy one another’s skills, so you pretend to support each and every one of yourselves. Until one comes out, bravely he stands under the limelight, and claims, “You are all wrong! You see them wrong!” When he does, he is ostracized. Collectively and in unison, you all reply, “There is more than one way to interpret a beautiful thing.” And he is lost—gone, banished, his right to interpret a beautiful thing in his own way revoked. Still I dance, here at the center of the magnificent stage, wearing the brightest colors, adorned with the most luxurious jewels, and I say not a word.
To you now I directly speak, because I see now that I must. I beg of you—you, and everyone with you, behind you, before you, around you! I implore you to hear me. I implore you to see me. Tonight, I wear not the brightest colors, for they will not turn a single head. Tonight, I have stripped you of your rights, your privileges, your artistic inspirations; I have stripped this room of any and everything that could compete for your inattention. Tonight, I wear my true colors: red with rage, green with envy.
~ fin ~
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