The day she tried not be Herself

It’s almost like drowning. To step out of the coolness of the evening, the stillness and the crystalline quiet of the moment, and into this: the noise and the heat and the frenetic movement of the lights. The sour smell of beer and sweat, the urgent press of hundreds of restless bodies—She feels the weight of it all bearing down on her , can feel the current threatening to pull her under. The main difference, she thinks, grimly elbowing her way through the crowd, is that when you push on water, it moves. It doesn’t push back. Drowning, she thinks, a desperate laugh bubbling to her lips, would be an improvement.

And then, finally, she’s through, because there’s her friend, straining to support another very drunk friend, who appears to be attempting to fuse them both on the outset of the humidity and the coolness of the air, away from the breath of the party.

When was the last time did you think she bared all these atrocity? To try and meld herself in the oneness of these people?

I mean, she could be there back in the tranquil corners of her room,

reading a book or two. She could be painting, or writing, or watching films, hell, she could be miles afar from this.

And yet here she is. All sweat and skin, three steps away from the dance floor—like a wall flower, but not exactly. No, she'd worn the dress a friend of a friend lent; a skirt, too short for the knees, some sandals 5 inches high and a turtle neck without sleeves.. thinking she might fit in, she thought she could be like them, like the crowd, like everyone, like Cinderella if she'd wore the glass slipper . But no, even with the glamour, she was still herself. Her kind made evident despite the clothes.

As she walked in between this seemingly mid-70's party, sure everyone did adore the air she breathed, the tameness of her crown despite the wildness of the clothes, but she did not dance. How could she? Her anatomy wasn't made for the beat of synthetic drums.

She stood out like a sore thumb—like an oddity. Then people stared for the wrong reasons at the wrong regions, not her soul.

This made her think.

It was a night unlike any other nights, but this night's moon was made of glass, made of mirrors piece by piece. It was not hers in the vast sky at the windows of her room. In this crowd that seemingly parted as she walked; barefoot now with her jacket on, angling with her stumbling friends, was just another death of a choice she won't make again.

Then before she would be long gone, casting one last pitiful glance at the crowd of animated people, still dancing to a beat she could no longer hear, A thought crossed into her mind, saying, even if she has stayed, there's nothing here to distract her from the fact that no matter how she tried, you could never stop being yourself.