Scared, I spilled my words out on a page and handed it to you.
You didn’t know me. And why should you? You read over it quickly, and shrugging, handed it back to me. You shook your head.
Quietly, I walked away and hid the page, never to see the light of day again.
But now, much later, I’m frustrated you didn’t give me a fair chance. Because it took something for me to give that to you. And it was my pain and my glimpse of beauty that you rejected.
You didn’t reject others. No. You accepted them again and again. They who are already so seen, so heard. They who already get to have their say.
See, you accepted the fearless and made the scared more fearful.
I sat, quietly, reading the words of others that had come to light. Some hurt me. Some confused me.
I sat, alone, in the quiet house, my feet tucked up under me, my toes finding warmth wrapped up in my skirt. I could hear nothing but the clock on the wall, the hum of the air conditioning, and the soft knock of a butterfly as it tried to break its way through the window.
I do wonder what it’s like to be great. Good is nothing. Because anyone can be good. But not everyone can be great. I have seen great people. The chairs that they have sat in, empty now, surround me. So many.
They wrote words you accepted. They wrote words that touched you, haunted you, belittled you, and upheld you. The took photos that gripped you, painted pictures that captivated you.
I’ve painted images with so much more to be desired. I’ve taken photos that couldn’t hold interest long enough. And I’ve written words that made you shake your head and whisper. Not good enough.
Because it is not enough to be good. But I don’t know if I have the ability to be better.