Ball Gown Ammunition

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My teeth chatter incessantly when winter strikes with its frozen whip, frosting my thoughts and throwing them asunder, leaving me to tremble huddled up in sweaters with thumb holes and curry stains, terrified of my crippling inability to melt the ice on fogged-up windowsills. 

My voice stutters strangely when I speak before the glassy eyes of strangers who only care too less, floundering for words I knew perfectly well a mere moment back, angry tears brimming and breath frustratingly hitched as I fail to face the tired red scrutiny of vanilla folk. 

My heart betrays me when I steal a glance down the length of a skyscraper, lurching and pounding, beating with unfamilar rhythms,  depriving me from the calm beauty of the fairy-lit, metropolitan surface that is a bit too below for comfort.

You see, I am a bit of a scaredy cat. My skin is still porcelain. I exist infinitely breakable.

I am armed with nothing but a rubber-band encircling my wrist (for when the going gets so tough that I need to get my head pulled straight into focus) and the shrug on my shoulders to propel all burdens away like a catapult to distances that lie beyond the pride lands, and into the elephant graveyard of forbidden adventures.

And forbidden the adventures remain.

Because I want to be too many things at once. One moment I am Elizabeth Bennet, reveling in my golden perceptions about the pretensions of society and my own self assured conquest of the trivial; and the next I am Arthur Dent, casually drifting down the star- spangled galaxy, baffled and numb and craving tea above all else in the absurdity of the boundless universe.

You see, I like playing dress up. I like to ski down the spectrums of personality and breathe in different airs. I like to want. 

So I want to wake up each morning and I  want fall asleep again. I want to have a thriving social life but I never want to leave my room again.  I want to befriend strangers and tell them what I feel about trivial things but I don’t want to give the dark world the benefit of my insecure opinion. I want to burrow to the depths of the world but I want to spread glorious angel wings and fly.

And well, I want to live with no worries for the rest of my days but oh I just can’t WAIT to be king.

In the end, though, I am only left to realize that no matter what I want, at this crisp, electric moment of endless possibilities, I cannot leave my footprints on the sands of time because my paw still falls pathetically in the mould of Mufasa’s legacy, reminding me that my time still hasn’t come yet, that my swords haven’t been forged yet, that my growl isn’t a roar yet, that I am not prepared for war yet.

I need real ammunition before I plan world domination- I need more sweaters in winter, more calming deep breaths on stage, more resolve at a height and more steel in my skin.

Because for people like me, who want to be everything at once, victory is not as simple as defeating the enemy. We need chocolate and bullets on the battlefield, because even as we obliterate, we get hungry. We need gold crowns on our heads and a commoner’s disguise under the cushions of our thrones because we need to be able to vanish when we don’t want to rule.

I like playing dress up a bit too much.

So, you see, before any war, I need to prepare for my own whims.

Because ball gowns are expensive, and the old ones need to be stitched.

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