The Raw Talent of Being Real, Photo by BradensEye, imp inspired

Be an authenticity slut. Set yourself to sopping with a Santa’s belly-bulge like the tea bag macerated in hot water, honey and lemon. Here is why even your cantankerous gore tinkles palatable. When one’s fragrance is so doused in dulce you’re continually attracting bees, kids at knee height, and anyone you truly please. Where you’re crushing the heat of credence as skillfully as the mosquito slays in summer. Loads of the global population seem liminal zombies to me. Instead of inventing who we truly are, we’re borderline bots sleepwalking with about as much accuracy bonking around and breaking a lot. Substitute giving over all of our apocryphal accoutrement personality for the favor of effective conceit. This is about keeping yourself company. I want us to be Shifu in our showing up for ourselves. The landscape of legitimate flesh is born of daring adeptness.

If you’re your authentic self, you have no competition. ~Unknown

Take the entity of sprites to mind. Children see not wobbles as weakness. Their frame of precision is faithful verity. Each knows the boast of abiding any impulse for trotting toward credulous whimsicality. Percolating our primitive wildness is what they’re made for planting. They hold ambitious panache for relentless leisure. You will often see them swigging love as fearlessly as any swami. Smalltime (i.e. youth) is ephemeral enough it’s silly to ever think we grow to suppress its supremacy. Us, once them, remain all the more reason to be savored. Our being is earning sufficiency to fling with unshorn hilarity. Pudding for breakfast. A desperado or vibrant ensemble for lunch. Then heart-shaped spectacles for dinner. We were surely not crafted to be tempered. Toughened through too much life chafing, we must treat restriction of self as the activist or evangelist doth protest. We are wholly in devotion to the cause.

If you wish to be a warrior prepare to be broken, if you wish to be an explorer prepare to get lost and if you wish to be a lover prepare to be both. ~Daniel Saint

I like… no, let’s correct this to prefer being consumed with the living of life. Clasping to every fragment with the appreciation of a provocateur wrapped around her stripper pole. I’m not taken by your designer labels, or how many gold rings fit upon your fingers, round your neck, or are plugged into your earlobes (not to mention god knows where else). I want to know you. I urge you to show me yourself and not the parade of your things. My hunger is voyaging to discover the complete indulgence of me. Pulling myself from the dirt is such splendid snobbery. Where ten long washings won’t even remove the embedded clay from under every nail or those creases of my folds that a few men have appreciated being buried within for days. This levity is the transportation of bragging rights for pulling my weight in exclusive lucidity. Make no way except the outlet for nerves of limpidity.

I’ve always loved the idea of not being what people expect me to be. ~Dita von Teese

What we remember is nuzzling against the attributes of authenticity. Those gratuitous eccentricities which have befriended us. From darling dilettante to professional, we may become anything ever there could be. In distracted celebration, we can charge any course yearned, previously attempted, or unqualifiedly imagined. The less confusing any vitriol the easier our flattery for encouraging others to join such concentration for themselves. Avoiding convention is a big part of my mantra. It’s righteously more genial when we mandate disguises for a holiday or garbacious event reason. Inspiring the sensation of dependable selfness is the arc of this covenant. It’s especially rousing to be surrounded by reams of history waiting for you to mime its motives, only to have you break the molds. Our position of magnanimous personhood elevates with our proof of truths.

We have to dare to be ourselves, however frightening or strange that self may prove to be. ~May Sarton

Maybe you’re the champagne in your circle. Alternatively, you might also be the hog-wild filthy child. Of course, some of us delve double-sided in the minimum. Perhaps your smile rivals Super Bowl Stadium’s halftime show. Whereas another’s exercising their pearly whites within the confines of Tanzi’s chimpanzees’ bounds. I collected Star Wars stamps and spun atop my tippy toes on pirouettes long ago. I still store a soft spot for Frankenstein after my years wearing a Frankel. I’ve been ridiculed and rewarded. Twists or turns have waged mutiny, as well granted me energetic scrutiny. I observe this organic survival as an ongoing revolutionary revival. We’re a Titanic experiment ~ sheltering the glamour, drama, and timeless resilience of producing new memories back to back. Gaping to the sky, regaling your reflection, or seeing oneself playfully mirrored in immaturity’s gaze typically testifies ego’s typeface. Thenceforth, granted finesse by revolting all the rest.

You attract the right things when you have a sense of who you are. ~Amy Poehler

Who we are unfazed by the plights of life is our prettiest prize.

P.s. With a sincere salute for this…

Oriah Mountain Dreamer

he Invitation

It doesn’t interest me
what you do for a living.
I want to know
what you ache for
and if you dare to dream
of meeting your heart’s longing.

It doesn’t interest me
how old you are.
I want to know
if you will risk
looking like a fool
for love
for your dream
for the adventure of being alive.

It doesn’t interest me
what planets are
squaring your moon…
I want to know
if you have touched
the centre of your own sorrow
if you have been opened
by life’s betrayals
or have become shrivelled and closed
from fear of further pain.

I want to know
if you can sit with pain
mine or your own
without moving to hide it
or fade it
or fix it.

I want to know
if you can be with joy
mine or your own
if you can dance with wildness
and let the ecstasy fill you
to the tips of your fingers and toes
without cautioning us
to be careful
to be realistic
to remember the limitations
of being human.

It doesn’t interest me
if the story you are telling me
is true.
I want to know if you can
disappoint another
to be true to yourself.
If you can bear
the accusation of betrayal
and not betray your own soul.
If you can be faithless
and therefore trustworthy.

I want to know if you can see Beauty
even when it is not pretty
every day.
And if you can source your own life
from its presence.

I want to know
if you can live with failure
yours and mine
and still stand at the edge of the lake
and shout to the silver of the full moon,
“Yes.”

It doesn’t interest me
to know where you live
or how much money you have.
I want to know if you can get up
after the night of grief and despair
weary and bruised to the bone
and do what needs to be done
to feed the children.

It doesn’t interest me
who you know
or how you came to be here.
I want to know if you will stand
in the centre of the fire
with me
and not shrink back.

It doesn’t interest me
where or what or with whom
you have studied.
I want to know
what sustains you
from the inside
when all else falls away.

I want to know
if you can be alone
with yourself
and if you truly like
the company you keep
in the empty moments.

LOVER of life. Especially people, places, philanthropy and photography.

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