Authenticity
At 35, I can confidently say that I know what me feels like.
What a road it’s been, inhabiting the skins of my guardians. Cloaking my essence in crowd consciousness. Dampening authenticity for the fleeting rush of belonging to the bond of accepted behaviors.
It’s utterly life-threatening to be anything other than the image of those who have lived. Maintain the status quo, as it were. Remain hidden under the thumb of fear, because at least in that primitive response I am not alone.
But so alone I have been, the essence of me shrouded layers deep. Not until the stars aligned and said it was time that I slowly began the journey of unfurling out of bed.
Easier as it is to remain comfortably contained in the familiar living of my satin sheets, I’d trade the depression of horizontal life for the rush of panic pounding my chest as I walk in upstream resistance through streams of the walking dead.
The essence of me is not in likeness to what I see, I am tasked with containing my vibration. Sure I feel the world and all of its distinctions, and the result of years devoted to self-reflection is feeling my point of return within a crowd.
A victory of unwavering authenticity, the ripping apart of every accepted belief gave me strength to moor to the endless bottom of infinity.
To unfurl is to open more than I contract. A blooming bud with a consciousness brimmed with the effort of treading many paths. Attracting the sameness of who I truly am, who we all are in potential of becoming. The softening under pressure and resisting towards oppression. Maintaining composure under tension and resisting the urge for a quick resolution, the alchemy of my patience is harmony. I am solely responsible for birthing myself into existence.
And what an existence it has been. Feeling the softening of my skin. Feeling the sediment of people-pleasing sentiments settling at peace with my past.
The feeling of empowerment for taking that breath that settles me back into the seat of surrender. The sap of a tree collecting at the center-point of me, a sticky landing for my awareness. A soothing balm for my dissecting thoughts that splinter and spread back into the sea of everything.
I am more alive at 35 because I’ve chosen authenticity. Because I choose this path at every corner, at every fork in the road. Sure, the wave is hard to distinguish from the ocean but as I give myself over to the wait, to this ever expanding moment in time, I can sense for the rhythm that is uniquely mine.
