The Long Awaited Beyonce Post
I've been challenged by my friend Maurine to write more honestly, and from the heart.
So here goes.
I'm secretly Beyoncé.
Several years ago, in the first official Proser post, I mentioned how I think I'm like Queen Bey, and it wasn't a joke. I hear her music, and it's like our brains are the same brain. I close my eyes, (and my curtains), and I get to booty-shaking.
Yes, my kids do laugh at me, (how'd you know?). They don't see what's happening in my head. In my mind, I'm wearing a leotard, and the spotlights are bright and trained on me, and everyone watching is thinking, "Dang, that girl is talented."
The difficulties come when I'm in my car, and one of Beyonce's songs come on the radio. There are no curtains in my minivan, and I can't listen to Beyonce without singing along. I shake my hair, and shimmy my shoulders, so every car around me gets a free Beyonce show.
Aren't they lucky?
But the other drivers aren't grateful for the Grammy Award quality show that's going on in my head. No, there is sometimes laughing and pointing, and I suddenly realize that I am a white girl/ mom/ driving a minivan/ making a fool out of myself.
My Hero Lucille Ball.
It makes me feel like Lucy Ricardo. Lucy wants, more than anything, to be in show business. The problem is, she's not a good singer, or dancer, or actor. She is all desire, and ambition, and light on talent.
I feel like that.
I want to be a writer, more than anything. I've always been this way. I started my first novel in fifth grade for crying out loud. I'm trying. I write almost every day. I submit my stories, and my novels. I'm doing everything I can.
But most of the time, I feel like I'm putting on a costume, and looking ridiculous, as I stand with my heart on my sleeve, and every drop of talent I
I can't stop, because I believe in myself to the point of delusion. In my head, I think that everyone who reads my stuff will think, "Dang, that girl is talented."
But that's not what happens. I realize occasionally that I'm ignoring my children/house/ reality, so I can look foolish.
My soul sister knows what I'm talking about.
My guilty pleasure, I ain't going no where
Baby long as you're here I'll be floating on air
'Cause you're my
You can be a sweet dream or a beautiful nightmare
Either way I don't wanna wake up from you
(Turn the lights on)
I mention you when I say my prayers
I wrap you around all of my thoughts
Boy you're my temporary high
I wish that when I wake up you're there
To wrap your arms around me for real
And tell me you'll stay by side
Clouds filled with stars cover the skies
And I hope it rains, you're the perfect lullaby
What kinda dream is this?
This just took a turn for the sad, (Beyonce will do that). I'm not trying to get sympathy, or support, or even adulation. That's annoying. I'm just trying to be honest as challenged.
See, that's part of the difficulties about having dreams. Not everyone who dreams will have their dream come true. Not everyone who dreams is good enough for it to happen. And you don't know which person you are, so you can't stop trying, just in case. Years pass, and there's no guarantee that all that effort will pay off.
Sometimes dreams are actually nightmares, dragging their victims around by their hopes.
Either way, I don't wanna wake up. Because in my head...it's beautiful.
So I close the curtains so it's just me and the bright lights, (and occasionally a leotard,) and I get to booty-shaking.
Talented or not, successful or not, I love to dance, and I love to write. Who cares about the destination anyway? I find joy in the dreaming.
I'm not gonna quit singing and dancing in my minivan when Single Ladies comes on, even though people may laugh. It might be the only time they laugh the whole day. Why on earth would I want to stop?
I'm not gonna quit writing when the inspiration hits me either, because I write for me.
I don't need an ever after to be happy.