Everyday let more of yourself creep through the cracks of creation, spilling through the tiny crevices, feel free. You feel me. Glow hot like multi-colored prisms, reflecting rays of light. I walk to my own rhythm. Rhythm. Rhythm. Dare I dare I be different in a world that has us photocopied; split images of the next mannequin standing, blindly we think ourselves original. Original is a sense of self that makes people gravitate towards you, naturally, a fresh hue glowing in appearance; ablaze; golden; vivid as the sun lit. Original is how you are born; a unique compilation of identity. People veer towards those original—it’s the closest thing to real they’ll ever get.
See somewhere between growing from a seed to a flower, from a daisy to a rosebud, I forgot the definition of original. I forgot that I was first-hand genuine, inspiring as free flowing avante garde; the precursor to a destined soul’s prototype. I feared myself for compromise’s sake, forgetting the times I feared nothing for original’s sake. Once on a quest, clear minded and care free…or maybe my list of cares when the clock rolls back were free from less chaos, funny enough, I realized what had been forgotten. I remembered originality. I remembered what originality required, further than what it symbolizes; to express oneself in an independent and individual manner; to express in creative ability. Dare I dare I ask, what could be more individually expressed than who we are as people; energies with imperfections and weakness’, alongside the push to keep picking up our feet, our hearts, off the ground regardless of mistakes, regardless of pains; what could be more creative able and independently expressed that the paths we all hold behind our eyelids?
In all our experiences, collectively, we hold a path from beginning of our existence to the transformation of our now, upon fortunate endeavors and unfortunate circumstances—we all hold an original product of mind; a life that no one can fully understand unless they were the very soles we walk on. Dare I dare I say let your originality flow like the boys that used to beat box on the street corner; sporadic, melodramatic jisms, boomboxic rhythmes, rhyming to your own beat; two-stepping to your own groove, illustrating your own picture—be free, you feel me.