#self-judgement

I realized today that I don’t hate my body currently.  Hold up, you might say, that’s hardly anything to be excited about.  But for me, it is.  I have struggled with image, with weight, with how others see me, since I was a kid. I’m sure I’m pushing buttons for a few of you. I’ll be 35 in a week.  I’ve had a kid.  I work a somewhat stressful job that doesn’t breed the healthiest habits at home. But today, I felt pretty good about myself.  I don’t think I’m super hot, nor am I thin by any definition of the word, but I’m alright with how I am. 

Antoine de Saint-Exupéry, The Little Prince (The King)

Author: Antoine de Saint-Exupéry (French)

Title: The Little Prince

First Published: 1943

Original Language: French

Translator: Irene Testot-Ferry

But it was chill.

I just am this way now.

Outdoor Advent Day 23

You don’t pass or fail at being a person, dear.– page 239, The Ocean at the End of the Lane by Neil Gaiman When I first read these words I had to put the book down and have a bloody good cry. Since then they have been written into the first page of every single one of my journals and they’re scrawled on a card pinned to the cork board behind my writing desk. They get recited, either in my head…

Prevaricator

If size were the estimate big or small to make the grade I’d put aside the need to win as the prize would pass me by congratulations on the form except for those who fail to reach the magnitudes I’ll explain while I settle for last place

against the measures that define beauty’s mark upon the flesh be the gauge be height or width circumference taunts especially the basic three or four declare who has won when the rest lose a narrow band that declares dimensions suited to please the eye

add to that the heft of weight wonder at what’s prescribed twisting minds who strive to meet perfection stated by photoshop clothing acts as a friend when secretly its just a bad denying fashion that could shine except for those with the pounds

amplified by the age number that that the wheel has turned the contest has a shelf life a window open for just a time shifted some for gender’s due still all must at last expire give up the sport when at last the decades count past three or more

in the end the game is rigged by the ones who typify more or less than I have those correction ideals of the flesh by the judge who is the worse asking more than all the rest damning what I should love prevaricator who is myself.

© 2018. Sean Green. All Rights Reserved. 20181224.

The poem “Prevaricator” is about an unfortunately concluded comparison of beauty.   The title word means “a person who speaks falsely; liar. a person who speaks so as to avoid the precise truth.”