Albeit all remains a fabrication
But why not enjoy the play of a role?
The art of being a woman
A dying art
The decor, the texture, the figurative dance, the allure of my body all wrapped up in glowing femininity
What am I if not my style
Taken lightly yet flowingly
Enjoying the dance
A brief interlude of joy
Swaddled in a woman’s body.
Affirming the role
Not allowing it to be lost through the mores of modern confusion
Here everything goes
All leaning towards homogeneity
Losing differentiation of body and soul
Extinction of style and conscious becoming
To meet the tides of confusion
Where everything goes amounts to nothing much grows
Celebration of small things like roles , the trajectory of how a robin flies and a bear hibernates is all lost in the show.
Little celebrations of inhabitations of how turtles form their clutches, when the swans sing, the seasons change and the stars glow in a cloudless night and each little girl becomes a woman, comfortable in her skin,
Inhabiting her role, her internal and external glow - are all what needs to be seen.
Just to know that a life carved and owned in its own beauty is worthy in each and every manifestation
This magnificent creation
Seen and known for the joy of just living.