I love her.
She is my everything.
So why is it that all those I have come to know in my life will tell me that our love can't be?
They say that it is against nature's law. That same sexed couples are an abomination to God.
But I say God is not of nature.
God is spirit.
And in spirit we are all the same.
Without gender or color but with the right to love and to be loved.
So where in fault do I lie when I say that I love her?
Although I have the form of a woman and not that of a man, is my love for her to be with held because society can't bring itself to see past the surface?
Know not they that true love is anything but superficial?
Maybe that's just it?
Maybe they have become so wrapped up in the appearance of things, that somehow they have become unable to recognize the true spirit of genuine compassion?
I love her because she is my passion.
The sin maybe in the fault that they know not their own and not because I know mine.
I hear whispers in the wind, whom speak to me of an enchantingly curious love that surrounds my soul with luscious laughter. And than from within my heart I become as a child again; free and ever full of life.
I have many times wished for the one who would give me their unequivocal love. For passions renditions to stir alive in me a forgotten song that in my youth had played itself endlessly, but now it's very notes a vaque memory. To know the one musician who will play gently the strings of my heart and compose together with me a resounding overture. And than to this sonata will we dance eternally.
Harlequin was a great entertainer. A novel actress in her own right, but a jester among society. She thought she'd amused the world by mimicking their presumptions. She donned the colorful costumn of social acceptance and wore the mask of mischievousness. She was an illusionist and a rogue player. Her performance was so precise in perfection that she herself was nearly hypnotized by her own trickery. This drama to bluff the masses was brought on by her belief that she would never be wanted for whom she truly was. For her there was a deep, unrelenting fear that she would be despised upon as shameful, sinful, and sick if she were to express her true self to the audience. Unknown at this time to Harlequin that while she performed as a pretender, a truth that had laid dormant in the furthest regions of her soul was about to erupt. Overwhelmed with such intensity of emotions, she could not mask her fears. This very oncoming catastrophe would send her into a more frightening realm than she could have ever imagined. She could no longer withhold her lies and deceptions. She was a mockery for all to see. Her theatrics were soon openly scrutinized and she received a blast of revelations from the very entity she so despretly tried to ignore. Harlequin was loathed, mistrusted, and disrespected. Not only by her audience but by her toughest critic; herself. Suddenly her mask to put on airs made her feel more hideous and deformed than ever before in the role of her life. For it had brought to her attention that she had done to herself the very things she feared from all others. She had spurned, shamed, and sickend herself by the sin of not accepting her true self. And for this she had become the fool. Though all eyes were upon her on that center stage, Harlequin felt alone and unloved. The very act to make the world happy had become her tragedy. Now as her tears begun to wash away her mask, she put down her scepter of deception and shed her brightly colored costumn as she let it fall into the spotlight. She would walk off that stage no longer to make believe that she was anyone other than herself. The clown was dead. The curtain fell. And for the first time, she heard the applause.