Phantasmagoria

I was born with the word resilience written in my iris. It was as if I had a predetermined life ahead of me that everyone already envisioned. My mom has often told me that infants only last about 40 weeks in the womb. Me? I overstayed my welcome and lasted 42. In a way, I guess, somehow, I knew too. I wasn’t determined to let the dirt and grime of those who walked the earth contaminate my fresh stardust skin. As I grew, the ripples of my life shone in my eyes. It didn’t matter how wide my smile was, I still reflected back a life of struggle and endurance. I prefer to assume that when people stare, it’s the story of endurance that captivates them. Not the trials, tribulations…not the obstacles, the blatant history, or the fact that I’ve known more and seen more as a twenty something year old woman than a forty year old man living in the middle of Manhattan in a luxurious loft has ever witnessed. It sounds foolish but its true. I flaunt resilience in my eyes like an artist his tattoos.

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