Dance, and let her dance...

Coffee's on. There's dishes in the sink and a sketchbook on the counter. I can't help but wonder if there's any creative doodles inside. I peek. Creative doodles there is but only one, but what's of interest even more is a list. A long list. It's dated recently, so I know it's fresh. A list of creative brainstorming ideas to what looks like some way of generating money from what she's passionate about most. Sounds like a more than familiar road I've been down too numerous times to count in my life.

It hits me. I've become what I hate the most. I've bound and tied her creativity with the ropes of reality. I've become the voice of reason in which I despise.

Dance, and let her dance...

It's an emotional realization that I am doing to her what I have lived my entire life trying to avoid; other peoples idea of my reality. I've called them "bubble bursters" or "wet blankets" and am akin to their ways. They aren't ways of error, but on the contraire. They are realistic ways of living life. They make sense, they're stable in their structure, and they're safe. They come from a place of concern, love and often times frustration for being witness to those of us who choose to live our realities a little less conventionally, a little more wreckless.

She's dying to be who her spirit tells her to be.
There is a connection with her.
I've felt what she feels.
I've lived what she's living.
I've hated what she hates.
I've become our worst enemy.
I've stifled her.
I've put out my own flame, I am my own wet blanket.
I am dousing her fire and extinguishing her flame.
She is my inspiration, my greatest teacher.
Be of stout heart, be brave, be courageous.

Dance.

Let me dance. Let me be who I want to be.
Let my spirit roar... let it soar... untie my chains and let me float free.
It's who God intended me to be.

Let her dance.
Let her go.

"Sometimes to self-discover, you have to self-destruct". AZ