What if I told you,
I know the ghouls and ghosts under my bed. Syllable for syllable I utter their names. Utter in my head, punctuate with nouns, verbs and similies and still fail to call their name out!
What if I told you I had skeletons in my closet. 6 feet past the coats and hangers till you reach a dead end. Till the shovel goes DING! and the secret hallway to my skeletons probe for a password. It’s funny all that can be unlocked with a four digit pin.
What if rain clouds are not the sign of misery? The dark forces RSVP until the light is blocked, then the fireworks display ensues. Lightening and thunder lead the way, patiently waiting for the rain to cleanse the soul and drench the earth in blessings. What if the rain is there so I don’t have to be the only one exploding into a million gallons. A million drops for my million cracks.
What if plants die during autumn? Turn from green to brown, gentle breeze plucking away leaf after leaf. Bare chested with head held high, naked and beautiful in the process of growth. Autumn, a season to shed the former self, to be honest with all the bare chested banter received from passerbys who think they know me because they identify with my uneven skin tone, or crooked smiles permanently pasted onto tree barks. A crooked smile, bare chested with scars, bruises, birthmarks, nothing to hide behind as because growth won’t allow you to be hidden. A death that breathes new life into the many roots.
What if Sundays are not meant for church, but for healing. Like go to church if you must, but heal because even titanium fabricated from skin, rips and tears at the seams. Because words hurt, and one hundred and forty four hours of pain in a week is too much to carry. Burdened with the guilty of self, the idea that what I believe I am, is a foreshadowing of whom I’m expected to be. But life isn’t lived in clouds of what ifs…
So, what if I stopped living in my head. What if I took life as it really is and embraced the ideology of being a human, whatever that actually is. Flaws vast and meandering, diversifying into my double standard. What if I realized I’m a stuttering mess, trying to embody Mark Anthony in his speech for Julius Caesar, with everyone’s eyes on me.
What if I am the stuttering mess in the speech of a life time. Truthfully though, does it even matter? For are we not all stuttering messes. What if I learned to love myself as viciously as prying eyes critize?
At the end of it all, prying eyes like Jon Snow, know nothing.
Maybe not, ‘What if?’ Maybe I should be asking, ‘what can?’ as in what can I do to change my what ifs to what can I do in the reality of the situation. To live a romantic fantasy in the mind is depressing, because life doesn’t happen in the mind.
So what if I could stop the what ifs, Would I dare?