I had a writers crisis; my cathartic cathedral crumbled to bits; my world of words changed forever. This is all a facade. All My work is a facade. I am not Shakespeare. A rose by any other name would smell as sweet. I was only huffing the fumes of fake flowers. I was trying to fill the empty with my own empty promises. How did I mess up so dang bad?
Well I forgot the simple things in life. I was always chasing what I thought were my values and it turns out I was chasing a car that was never going to slow down. I wasn't letting seeing my values and dreams riding shotgun, pulling at my shirttails reminding me they were there. I forgot where I was going in the first place. Why does our ideal version of the seemingly achievable, but in reality unreachable, always cause the last rung of the ladder to break? To let us fall flat on our face?
Usually when I see what I is a reflection of myself, 'chique, hopefully beautiful one day, self. It causes me to agonize in the mirror, tossing about and fretting I do not look like the model in the magazine, though wearing the same outfit, is like Alice through the looking glass. She fell into what she thought she wanted, but realized an abstract unfamiliar world. Then she realized what she loved most, her kitten, her family, her sleepy studies, she had ignored. What I see in the mirror is actually a tiny tip of the massive underwater wonder of the iceberg I feel and hold so deeply in my truest of soul. Un Zoe- speaking, less perfectionist is my vulnerable self. My un-self like a designer bag or the hottest new restaurant, that I will never be satisfied with how they fill the empty craters, will always miss what I could be. Like the romantic dancer I claim to be, tangoing for love and a man. Though I want to swept off my dancing feet and spun around, I found my chase for "romance" is more of a matter of a carousel going around. Its all around me but I'm so busy chasing the perfect guy, I don't bask in the sunset. I'm so busy wanting to go to the Bahamas so I miss the feathered ducks gliding across the lake. Being a romantic.. is SO much more than in love. Its being in love.. with life. Thats why I created this damn blog in the first place.
Shakespeare showed love in all its forms; whirlwind romances, Star crossed skies and fairies flittering about and "Kiss me Kate" with her values of independence and self worth. Thats all romantic in its own right. Romance, is so much more simple and satisfying when its not what it could but what it could have been or would have been.
If only I had stopped to smell the roses. Because a rose by any other name is not Zoe. Zoe is the essence of her own a rose. I like that more. I love that more.