INCANDESCENT

9.17.17

You are singular. Every moment is your autograph - your awkward smiles to a stranger on the sidewalk, unreciprocated but put out in the open nonetheless. Your groggy eyes in the morning. Your deepest hurt that comes to the surface too often. Your greatest joy that you rustle out of the depths of your memory when everything else is too heavy. You are singular. Every thought is your poetry. Every move is your dance. Every word spoken is your calligraphy. You are singular.

And maybe, somewhere down the road, someone told you otherwise. Maybe you saw "that group" that looked so happy outside so you thought to be like them. Or maybe they asked you to be. Or maybe they forced you to be. Maybe your curly hair was too big. Maybe you were too clumsy. Maybe you didn't tell jokes quite right. And suddenly all that you are - became all that you were not able to be. And became defined by limitations.

Dear friend, You are singular. And the greatest secret they in "that group" may be trying to hide - is that they each are, too. To their loss. We are singular. And you, dear friend, are scraps of paper pasted together in a collage with torn edges and overflowing glue and a reckless disregard for color coordination that "that group" would casually disregard. But I would call a work of art.

I hope your singularity shines out to you clearly as a spark in the night bright in a dark sky