like snow on a warm day,
the picture seems questionable,
as if it will disappear
if I look away for a second,
and so I stare at it,
memorizing, just in case.
I look at the face,
innocent, young,
hair hanging in wide eyes,
a red jacket over a pink shirt,
striped plaid pants.
not exactly a fashion statement,
still, a smile,
content, smug,
a child enjoying life.
free... she doesn't care
what people think of her,
she lives for herself...
red, pink, and plaid,
it's what she likes,
and so she wears it.
she sits at a piano,
tiny, pale hands flying across
white pearls and black onyx,
sending her emotions swirling
in the air, disguised as music...
she ignores society's chains.
they say she's crazy, so crazy
for "wasting" hours at a black piano.
at seven, they say,
she should enjoy life.
they don't see that she does,
even more than them,
because it's what she likes,
and so she does it.
nothing stands in her way,
ever.
she's who she wants to be,
and no one accepts it.
I look down at my own hands,
pale, and trembling,
cradling this precious picture...
tears sting my eyes
and dampen my cheeks.
I look down,
tight black pants clinging to my legs,
a spotless white sweater upon my chest.
I reach up to my hair,
flawless, stiff, but perfect.
clothes and hair
with no personality,
a prisoner of style.
forced to join the crowd.
am I becoming another clone?
one more member of society,
a group afraid of individuals,
and obsessed with image.
Realization. Zing.Kaci 4-10-98
Irony: About four months after I wrote this, I was going through old pictures, and I found one of me when I was six or so in pink pants and a red shirt - and it just cracked me up. I'm sitting on a rock on the top of Grayson Highland's mountain. I just had to add this to this page.
