i grew up with books.
dragons and mermaids filled my mind
living in a world of my creation
i owned a book. one. singular. book. non-fiction, that is.
obsession would be an understatement.
a creature with an ability
unlike anything i had ever seen before
the chameleon.
jealousy was the anchor wrapped tightly around my ankle,
chaining me to the ground.
it seemed an impossible feat
to accept that i could not be a chameleon,
so naturally, the only thing that made sense
was to chase the reality
of becoming a chameleon
able to change myself to blend into my surroundings
a skill that was purely my own.
i was endlessly proud to be a chameleon.
this morning at school we were given an assignment
identity; what it means to be you
and as i sat at my computer
nothing came to mind
i was a chameleon, that meant change
i was many things
and as my mind drew a blank
it hit me for the first time ever --- being a chameleon
may not be a good thing
a chameleon is prey.
hiding from bigger, scarier, predators.
is that what i had been doing? hiding?
so yes i am a chameleon
i have been one for as long as i remember
But i think it's time to stop,
being a chameleon.
To see how life would be through the lens of
something different
anything really
Maybe a tiger, or frog, or even a peacock.
Just -- not a chameleon.
Comments