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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.

Pure celebration.

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