Don't Hate Me Because I'm Beautiful

It's really a sad thing when I can't find the time to write.  Not only is it sad, but depressing.  Depressing to my soul.  I find myself unable to concentrate in class because there's something festering and it simply will not leave me alone until I write it down.  Even then, it usually sucks me in and distracts me until math class is over and I just missed all of the notes.

Do you have that happen to you?  Probably not.  Just a Dain-ism, I suppose.

I can hear a train moaning far away.  It's moving further and further away...  I wish we had more trains.  More train tracks.  More giant, polluting, noisy things that would house parties of shotgun toting East Coast gentlemen that shot buffalos from the comfort of their hissing train.  Maybe we just need more of the old style, when the earth was greener and we were all less aware and less tainted by the nasty things that inhabit the world today.

I've had moments, more and more frequently, where I can see myself for what I truly am.  Where my mind is no longer polluted by those noisy trains that shoot down any good thought I have.  They're driving my good thoughts to extinction, like the white men drove the buffalo.  Except the buffalo are back, so maybe my mind has hope. 

But anyway, I have those moments.  Where I can look at my face and not think, "ew, look at those ugly brownish-poop eyes.  They're too small for my face."  Or "ew, look at all of my freckles.  Ew look at how pale I am.  Ew ew ew ew ew."  But I just see a person, with different characteristics and traits that are all sewn together to make one Me.

The train is back again.  Perhaps it's going the other way?  Probably not.  Trains never go backwards.  They just chug their way to their destination then they have to get turned around because they're too stuck to the tracks to do it themselves.  Those degrading thoughts are always on a track, as well.  And they just keep chugging and chugging until you reach the station and you're feeling awful about yourself and wondering how long you would survive if you just crawled under a rock and never came out again.  whooo whooo.  

But the train isn't getting to me today.  It sounds mournful.  A mother searching for her child.  whoo whoo who took my baby?  Whoo whoo whoo whoo whoo.  Getting further, getting lost, still searching.  I feel bad, because Momma Train can't get off of her track to find whatever it is she's missing.  But I'm a freebird.  Maybe I've been denying my wings for a long while, my whole life even.  But I've just rediscovered them, and although it won't be easy to remember to beat my wings, to remember that if I want to fly I'm going to have to do a little work, at least I've noticed my feathers and wondered why I have them.

This is all over the place, I know.  Sorry.

Not all people are beautiful, and I know that.  I'm a very aesthetic person.  I don't like ugly things.  But even I cannot deny that there is a time when everyone is beautiful, even to me.  And this is when they're doing something that they love.  They may be the most gnarled old crone you've ever laid eyes on, with spotty, leathery skin and bloodshot, squinty eyes, but if they're doing something that they're passionate about, they become transformed.  Maybe that's why I'm such a sucker for theater and things like that.  Because you can see the excitement the actors have when they perform, or the dancers when they dance, or the musicians when they play, and I find myself wondering if I have ever seen a more perfect person.  It makes me happy to see them so content, so in their prime, so masterful.  The women are gorgeous, the guys are heart-breakers, and I'm just a member of their audience, wishing desperately that I knew them, could point up and say "that's my friend.  That beautiful person right there is my friend."  But it is hardly ever the case.