Four

THE INDIVIDUALIST: Sensitive and withdrawn. Expressive, dramatic - self-absorbed and temperamental

I desperately wanted to paint my individuality into one giant blank canvas. I would add deep splashes of indigo, vibrant hues of crimson, streaks of emerald, washes of yellow, smears of faded white, and intricate swirls of violet. I wanted to etch my elysian soul into every stroke of the brush and give physical form to my idiosyncratic worth. I even wanted to capture every smudged blemish, as if imperfection could give way to surreal divinity. Only I would be qualified to capture and unravel it all. If I were to be called an artist, then surely my very soul would be my greatest masterpiece. They say a picture is worth a thousand words, but I believed that I was worth a thousand more. I chose to believe that. So, I raised my paint splattered hand to the easel with sanguine determination, but inevitably felt paralyzed as I didn’t even know how to begin. It was almost poetically tragic how still my hand became.

With hardened determination, I desperately searched for the meaning of authenticity, but was left with worn film reels brandishing a kaleidoscope of emotions. I tried to make sense of it, tie the ombres of myself into distinct hues so the speak. But in the end, I had sorted out some of the good and focused a bit too much on the bad, inevitably gaining a skewed caste system of things I believed to be me and not me. But when I stopped to consider what to do about it, I felt as misplaced as a broken rhyme scheme, as if I had only achieved a stained-glass variation of the truth. Frantically, I tried to spark a personal renaissance within me and somehow create a peace of mind about who I was; but I hid so often behind my various metaphors and explanations that I found it difficult to find myself. So instead, I simply stood there and silently took a polaroid snapshot of my life in hopes that I could find the answers in what was captured. But when the film slowly faded into focus, I was left only tightly clasping a blurry photograph. Perhaps the focus was off. Perhaps the exposure had been all wrong. Perhaps I was what was wrong. Either way, it was too difficult to accept such a fabrication.

But I had lost myself in your beautiful smile adorned with pastel daisies and soft lavender. It was breathtakingly stunning. Like iridescent sunlight. It felt like warm ocean sunsets and pine wood campfires on an open night. It felt like the definition of beauty incarnate. In a moment of unadulterated awe, I reached out for your hand, but hesitated, uncertain if it would fit in mine. I wasn’t like you. I wasn’t meant to be. I could stand at your side but never by your side. The focus would be thrown off and the aesthetic would be all wrong. I would hold onto my diacritic mark with a vigilant strength even while understanding that it was what separated me from you in the end.

Nevertheless, I desperately tried to imitate your exquisite beauty into a tune I could one day recreate myself. For, you were my muse that I wish I could be. But my raw fingers slipped clumsily on the strings and I felt embarrassed at my childishness, as if my impatience had produced brash callowness. With a melancholy fervor, I envied your talent. I longed for what I could not have. Beyond that, I longed for what I felt was near impossible: your true acceptance. Both from you and me. Truly, I wanted to be understood by you, yet I also somehow found purpose in thinking that was never meant to be.

Still, I wanted you to see me. See who I was through and through. I was more than willing to open every closet and treasure chest in my heart to you. In fact, I was even fervently inclined to display every crevice of my soul into one beautiful picture for you to behold. I would do it, if only you would understand. If only you would accept everything you found with an unwavering gaze. If only you would take my shaking hand into yours and show me that it doesn’t have to feel so unnatural.

Clumsily, I gathered my fractured courage and began to paint my shifting individuality into the giant blank canvas before me. It wasn’t easy and the ardent task near broke my frazzled mind. The bright and messy colors mixed together in an awful way and the shading wasn’t ever just right. It was flawed. It was human. It was undoubtedly me. It was magnificent.

Scared but eager, I presented it all for you to see, and hoped that you’d smile.