I change for you. Did you know that? It's not a choice or a strategy. It's instinct. A natural shift. A redirect in programming. One that alters my color to fit your palette. Why do I do it? To make your life easier. To add to what you already have. To enhance it if I'm able. And willing. I'm always willing. Am I too willing? It happens like seasons. Rapidly turning seasons. Or weather. Curated weather for your atmosphere. You're welcome! I didn't always know what it was, but I could feel it happening. Upon entering a space it would grip me. A need to change. To morph into a shape not altogether different from my original, but unique. A shade of myself. A fragment of fiction embedded in the truth. Because few can handle the full truth. All of my colors. That's a lot, even for me. So, I mix them. Separate them. Cover some. Expose others. In an effort to blend seamlessly into your background. If I make it that far, I can start to absorb. Not just your colors, but your voice, too. I can learn it. Let it brand itself, like a font. One I can use to write you a message and send it to you. To make you laugh. Or ache. To lift you up. To shine a hot light on what's good about you in the hope some warmth will reflect back onto me. Cold blooded as I am. Is it painful? Sometimes. But not so painful I don't seek out the pain again. It's like torn muscle or tolerance to poison. The more I change the easier changing becomes and the longer I can remain changed. Sometimes I make mistakes. I enter your orbit wearing the wrong shade of me, and I get kicked out, passed over, knocked down. To attempt a color recalibration mid-fall is futile, so I simply stop ... ... and float. I return to my base shade. Ash gray. Mousy brown. Colorless. I retreat. Until the stump of my broken tail can mend itself and regrow. I crush easily. I fall hard. I cling to the environments I most want to occupy and I change for them. Again and again. I'm not a pretender. It's all me. Rough scales. Soft belly. Quiet lips. Wicked tongue. Sharp claws. Keen eyes. Fiery heart. Busy mind. Just not all at once. I make myself the most loveable to you, so you don't have to try hard to love me. Isn't that nice? For a while maybe. But then I fuck it up and have to start over. From scratch. From gray. From ash. And while I'm shedding my failure and regenerating my thickest skin, I cling to those who love me for all my colors. Those who have witnessed them. One at a time. And all at once. For them I don't change. They don't want me to. On the spectrum of love, they are as close to me as you are far away.
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Thanks for repeating this one, or I’d have missed it. Not everyone can keep a metaphor going without wearing it out, and you did it splendidly.
“Wear hats.” And costumes.
Glad you recycled this one -- it's a banger.
I'd like to believe our forthcoming conversation inspired your attention-demaning rant, at least partly, so even if nobody listens to the episode the discussion has already proven useful. Related: I'm joining Instagram.