The Strain

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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