Hey Sexy Bitches,
I want to tell you a bedtime story.
Once upon a time there was this ostrich who stuck her head in the sand all day long. She was a very tall bird, as far as ostriches go, strong and able, but too many people had convinced her that she wasn’t. During those times of head hiding, blocking out the world, whatever-the-fuck you wanna call it, in the darkness, she wondered a lot of things.
What was real? Who defines ‘real?’
Were these thoughts real? Were her memories real? There were so many conflicting things in her head that she wanted to scream into the dirt. Be this way, be that way, stop doing that, start doing this, you’re weak, you’re ugly, you’ll never make it on your own, you don’t have what it takes to live your dream. Give up, bury yourself deeper, disconnect from everyone, the world is going to shit anyway and so are you. You’ll always be broken and scared.
But inside that storm of terrible voices, a tiny one could be heard from time to time.
Eat more tacos.
No…just kidding. That wasn’t it.
You are made for more than this.
Like a freight train coming from a long distance away, this sentence rolled over and over in her mind. Eventually, she pulled her head from the dark soil to listen better. She found that in the light of day, the imagined terrors sort of dissipated and what seemed very real, wasn’t anymore.
She asked herself again, “What is real?”
A very strange woman in a green coat and sunglasses approached her, wrote something on a slip of paper and handed it to the ostrich.
It said, “You are made for more than this. Don’t think you are, know you are.”
This went against all the stories the ostrich was ever told. It went against all the stories she had told herself.
As time passed, she realized she was physically strong. She found she could run very, very fast. She found she could merely look at someone and make them back off. She found that she could dance like a motherfucker. But most importantly, she found that she no longer wanted to hide her head in the sand, even thought there were times it was very, very tempting.
Everywhere she looked, she saw bullshit. Just like her own stories turned out to be bullshit to keep her hiding in the sand, there was bullshit all around. Sometimes people didn’t bury their heads in the sand, but lived in similar cages of the mind. Believed stories that weren’t true. Stopped questioning anything. Refused to see that they, also, were made for more than this.
And so she thought it very important, that even though this world does not like ostriches who say fuck and do whatever they want and call out bullshit, that this is exactly what she would do.
Was she still scared?
Every damn day.
But that fear isn’t real. It feels real. But what is real?
She decided she would start defining ‘real’ for herself. Because she fucking could. She didn’t need anyone’s permission to take up space and believe that maybe she was made for more than this.
And she let the thinking be the thinking and decided to know what she was.
p.s. also, there is no spoon. There never was.