Camouflaging Beauty

Once upon a time, in a land in the shadows of reality...

a place on the outskirts of time, actually -- 

so not upon time at all, but rather in spite of time --

This is where a sad creature named Camouflaging Beauty

hid.

Leafy Sea Dragon

Photograph by Armand Poblete

Camouflaging Beauty had only a vague recollection of the true reason she had slipped into hiding -- 
only that hiding had become her way of survival, 
her way of life (if one could call it that).

A dark shadow moved across the waters of her home

at irregular intervals, 

leaving her on the edge of herself,

far from her center.

The shadow was the deformed son of Narcissus, 

a goblin-of-sorts named Toadly --

one cursed to never be fully seen 

for the mantle of lies he wore as a cloak.

Toadly had spied Beauty, bathing among the rushes 

on the edge of the dark sea,

trying in vain to hide her tears that made the waters rise

deeper and deeper.

Toadly did not notice her red-rimmed eyes,

nor the deep aching hollow they surrounded --

tunnels to her wounded heart,

pathways intended for healing.

So enamored of her body, Toadly slipped silently to her side,

enveloping her in his shadowy cloak

impregnating her with his seed and pulling her under.

It didn't take long for Beauty to realize that the shadow was holding her captive,

sucking the life out of her.

But as he held her children for ransom,

she did not leave.

She learned that showing herself as anything but the image he idolized

would cause the shadow to rage,

so she hid, and became

Camouflaging Beauty.

Did she, like her sister Sleeping Beauty,

await some awakening from this state 

so unbefitting her possibilities?

Awakening comes,

as it always does,

by varying avenues,

wearing multiple faces...

Sometimes it forces itself

like Basile's Sole, Luna, e Talia,

impregnating with hope,

against the will of the hopeless.

The cloak Toadly had given her as his gift of betrothal

was a cloak of hopelessness.

Within it seeds of hope seemed so out of place

that she hid them,

camouflaged. 

Hope from without 

is stillborn in despair.

It must rise from within

to bring courage

to break through the surface,

burst forth and fill the lungs with sweet, misty air.

"This is my letter to the world, That never wrote to me,-- "

The words of Emily Dickinson echo my sentiments at the moment. This blog has been such a good release. That was the main reason to make it in the first place--to have a place for such release, a journal that cannot be found by those in my household for whom I would feel the need to edit my true thoughts and feelings.

Even though I don't want those who know me personally to read this online diary, I'm finding that I do long for an audience... someone to hear my heart, to read my words, to offer feedback that might help me to clarify the jumbled stuff pouring out of my crippled heart... someone to seek after me when I "disappear" (as I have the tendency to do in real life, and now I have also done so here.)

Yes, I've been hiding, even from this secret place. I've been nowhere. Hiding from hiding. Hands over my eyes, refusing to even peek at the world. Too numb to attempt engagement with a world that "doesn't write to me." Something happened, but it's not really the something that happened that sent me deeper into hiding. That something is closer to being an excuse than a true driving force. What happened?

A friend, not close--but friend nonetheless--
was taken from the world a couple weeks ago.
Suddenly.
They call it an accident, but that doesn't make sense to me.
Even though it's inexplicable, it cries out meaning...
Meaning beyond my understanding is meaning still.
I am so overwhelmed by the immensity of the gorge
between my understanding and all there is.
My words, so insignificant,
Trickle like rogue dribbles from cracks in a hose.

All I can say is:
"This is my letter to the world,
That never wrote to me,-- "
Would you write?
to me?
.