I am a bare soul, hunting for others with whom to share bareness, to feel each others' jagged edges and smooth underbellies and marvel at the buffing that reveals beauty.
In a world that glorifies strength and defines success as covering up in power suits and tells the stories of those who haven't broken, it is hard to be bare. Harder, still, to find the bare ones. For I love the broken, the jagged edges, the incomplete, the gritty surface with the smooth underbelly, the shell worn down to pearl. I cheer the ones who have the courage to break, not knowing how the pieces will be reassembled but hoping against hope that they will.
As a writer, it is easy for me to be bare. In person, however, I feel shyness tug at my skin and I reach for covering, something prettier than this nothingness that reveals all. And I wonder why it's not a clear translation, from written word to spoken word, walking as a bare soul beneath another's gaze.
But this I know: the more I write the bare-skinned story, the more I live into it. Until the day when what I write and what I live are but one story, and I no longer shrink from the gaze of ones who have not yet shed their own clothes.
Joining Lisa-Jo today and the writers at Five-Minute Friday, for the prompt of "Bare."