Soliloqui

Who am I?

I am the one who has This is Not Chick Lit and This is Chick Lit standing next to each other on my bookshelf. Unassuming. Unaware of animosity.

The shadows beneath my eyes grow deeper as the week plods on. I look like a darker, more brooding version of myself. Or one who is incapable of applying makeup?

I am the one who looks at the crescent moon and wonders if interpretation separates personality. Do you see a silver sliver in the sky or a sphere eclipsed by fuzzy darkness?

I refuse to be an artist for the sake of being an artist; Alma Gluck would be so proud. I want to be the bird who sings because something inside compels such a radiant gesture.