I could tell you what the other side of fear looks like and that I’ve peered into your soul to find it filled with thousands of bluebirds, struggling to break free. Your heart is scarred and tough like a piece of dough that’s been kneaded too many times, but you’re still trying your best to please everyone anyway.
I will tell you that I’ve looked into your mind and there’s not the right word in the English language to describe the trapeze artists and pretty girls dressed in sequins flitting about from brain stem to nerve ending—so much confusion, majesty, wonder all at the same time. Can you produce a word for that?
I see you and I wish you would realize that, when it comes to beauty, Aphrodite and Marilyn cower in jealousy of you. The world opens up with joy when you walk through the door and if you listen closely enough, you can hear the floorboards singing, happy to just be beneath your feet for a moment.
I could tell you that you’re worth the world and so much more, dear friend, but I’m not sure you’d hear me over the deafening sound of your own self-doubt. If you wanted, you could reach into the sky and pull the moon from his corner without asking, and no one could fault you, because surely you must have had a good reason.
I wish you knew that no matter how scarred and patched up you may be, I’ll always be here holding the glue and ready to pick up any pieces of porcelain that fall off as you walk by. And when you finally notice your reflection and the sea of people behind you—better for knowing you-- you’ll fall to the floor in disbelief of how wonderful you are, as we all have done for years-- a trail of people bewildered in your wake, waiting for God or something like it to grace us as they have you.