A new standard, a new life. What is there to do if not to reach for the cotton clouds feathered over the snow-covered mountains? I could tell you I’m reaching out for a way to change the world but the big picture is too much weight for my shoulders to bear. What am I really reaching for? It’s a selfish answer. Success. On my terms. Ambiguous and unhealthy as this may seem, I want to see proof of my capabilities. I’ve recently become addicted to that rhapsodic feeling I get whenever I amaze myself. I’m on a mission to extract every last saccharine drop of it that exists within me. Why now, you ask? I’m reaching for the life I never thought I deserved. I wanted, but it felt like a fairytale, much like my dream of becoming a dancer, so I remained with my feet flat on the ground. I now know I’m worthy and that success is meant for me but only if I am committed to the constant challenge. I will lift myself until the tip of my throbbing toe is fully pointed like the pink ballerina of my childhood fantasy. Stretching, bending, straining, extending my bruised limbs and sore bones to the limit up toward enlightenment, education, excitement. Elevation as I raise my index finger to the sky until it aches in my muscles and crinkles in my question mark brow and I doubt and recoil but then I spring back leaping further out. I am growing. That is success. There simply is no other way for me. Not anymore.
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Eternal Metamorphosis 