I’m late. I’m late for a very important date – Alice in Wonderland
Every day I chase the dream while running after my very own white rabbit. I catch glimpses of a tail or white wiry whiskers telling me there is hope, and the chance to grab onto one steadfast dream I’ve had since I was 6 years old. I’ve seemed to have lost a shoe and my dress is ripped from my own doing. Give me the potion, the one where I sleep, or the one to make me bigger.
Because I’m so unsure of every single word here. I don’t know which door to open and which one to close, and I’ve lost my heart. My mind is going mad again. It’s been mad before so I know madness when it unsettles the dirty ground and shakes open the peaceful door to the tranquility I call home.
WE ARE ALL MAD HERE.
Disturbing, trickling rain drops of self doubt combined with loathing. I hate the way I look. I hate the pictures I take and how my broad shoulders only register four words: I am a linebacker. Who can find prettiness in such a frightful being? Teeth are too big. Definitely not beautiful. Those teeth will gnash and bite one’s skin clean off until they’ve reached the bone. This is what we do to ourselves. We eat our own self worth while being told whose skin we should be wearing.
I don’t look as good as Blake whats-her-face. I was not born to be Taylor or Kylie or whoever they’ve plastered on the glossy covers and airbrushed into perfection for the time being. I can’t be them when I am me. Due to my own nature and bone structure, I will never be as skinny or as beautiful or as talented… so they say. Forbes will never register me and blast my name and worth from his gold-plated bullhorn.
Nor do I want him to. I don’t want the wealth or the fame or any of the excess garbage associated with chasing my dream. I only want to write, and in doing this one simplistic act I hope to die with peace in my heart and some measure of self worth. Keep the publicity and feed it to the fame whores who need to be coated and drenched in it’s oil. I got my own holy water.
And I got the dream. It was always the dream that kept me running after the rabbit. We are both late for a very important date. It’s our party. No one is allowed to attend the gala, because we were the ones who danced our way into the pearl-covered gates. We will speak to Saint Peter and find out the transgressions which will either condemn our fate or buy us a ticket to enter. Perhaps, just maybe, he will overlook the way I see myself. He won’t see the girl who is a linebacker gritting her large horse teeth. He won’t notice I wasn’t on the lists or drove the fanciest car and my clothes were secondhand.
As I chase the rabbit, he looks back to say “We may be late, but at least we got here. We arrived, baby. None of that other shit ever mattered.”
He’s right. It doesn’t matter in the end.